Eternity
by SpookyMormonHellDream
Summary: ALW-verse, E/C, Raoul-friendly. Summary: "In the end, if it meant giving up my life for theirs, then it was worth it - I should count myself fortunate for the chance." A story of redemption and acceptance, of confronting countless ghosts and demons, of facing the past when its echoes can no longer be denied - even if that battle ultimately proves to be deadly.
1. Rice Grains and Roses

**Author's Note:** _Welcome to my latest piece of phiction! I would like to start off by saying that I own neither the story of the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the song lyrics/titles that I am utilizing for this piece. I expect to be able to submit chapters regularly; I have a freakish ability to be able to write nearly 4,000 words at a time, allowing me to break up those writing sessions into smaller, cohesive chapters. In doing so I can get many days' worth of work out in just one night, and edit well at my leisure. It's a great skill with a baby in the house! I hope that everyone will enjoy this one, and I'd like to once again express my appreciation for those that read and review, and I encourage everyone to be honest in their commentary, because every little bit of criticism helps, believe me! Finally, the title for this chapter is based on lyrics from the song "Drowning Lessons" by My Chemical Romance. I encourage everyone to head on over to YouTube and look up the song, specifically a lyric video; the words always make me think of Erik, and in this case they fit extremely well with the emotions I was trying to capture. That said, I'll let y'all be on your way with this. Enjoy!_

Chapter 1 – Rice Grains and Roses

Christine

The recently chaotic snowstorm has finally eased into a gentle fall of quiet, unassuming white flakes. It's peaceful, so serene that in any other setting I might have actually felt calm and contented. But to watch the snow drift silently down to the grounds of Raoul's family estate below my window left me with a pang of unease that I couldn't dismiss. Such a feeling was not uncommon recently. It was all wrong; I didn't deserve such placidity, didn't want anything to do with it. The world around me didn't reflect the turmoil in the deepest part of my heart – it mocked it as intensely as my thoughts had bitten at my heart all these long weeks.

It had been snowing when he gave me that last rose. Had I known then that it would be his last sincere token of affection – not something born of desperation and given in a moment of anguish – I would never have discarded it as I had. No, not at all. Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't have kissed Raoul in front of him, wouldn't have declared a love that I simply didn't understand, and I wouldn't have let the small flower out of my shaking hands. Erik had destroyed it in his grief; all I have left of it now is the petals that I later found broken in the snow, contrasting with the white ground as if they were the very drops of blood from the heart that I had so quickly ripped from his chest.

That night was similar to tonight in appearance only, the regret I feel now a cruel reminder of what I then had thought to be bliss. I know it wasn't necessarily that, not entirely. It was a fleeting thing, masking what I had felt all along but was too young, too cowardly to acknowledge. I was such a fool, a child too naïve and spoiled to understand what was happening all around me. Oh, how I've thought of that in all of this time.

It suddenly struck me as odd how much had happened to me – to all of us – in a relatively short amount of time. We had gone so long leading our lives separately and for the most part normally before our meeting. Hearing Erik's voice, so pure and gentle, for the first time, recognizing Raoul after so many years apart – it had all happened in a rush for which I was wholly unprepared. How my actions have tortured their hearts all this time. _But then, were they so fair to me in return?_ I thought briefly. I sighed, wishing for a fleeting moment that none of us had ever crossed paths, were never allowed to play our cruel and desperate games against one another, intentional or not. How I wished none of us had fallen in love. It was far simpler to daydream with Meg and the other girls in the corps de ballet than to actually live through my heart's awakening.

It has been several weeks since the disaster at the Opera Populaire, since that night when my actions, compelled by a misplaced sense of revenge and justice and terror, set in motion an affair that has left us all ruined and broken in our own ways. In all these weeks I suppose I should have spent my time moving on, forgetting the voice that still haunts my dreams and that last look of love and heartbreak in its owner's eyes; I should be planning my wedding with great joy and innocent anticipation. Yet I still see Erik when I close my eyes, feel my hand in his, and all thoughts of marital bliss with Raoul strike me as more of a burden than a blessing. It makes me sick. How ungrateful must I be to feel this way?

But I cannot deny my feelings any longer, as conflicting as they are. The very idea of Erik leaves me with a sense of awe and pity, of fear and longing. So many unanswered questions, ignored pleas for understanding and hope. I want nothing more than to just see him once again, to say what I need to and accept whatever he has to say in return. I need it. If I'm perfectly honest with myself, I know I need him, and that notion leaves me scared yet oddly hopeful. This isn't the first time that thought has come to me as if from nowhere; my heart whispers to me often what I should do, what I want to do. Tonight, however, it's screaming, begging me to finally see the light.

I cannot marry Raoul, I know that now more than ever. I have to see Erik, even if doing so turns out to be the final act of our short-lived romantic tale. If I find myself an old maid with only my memories of his eyes boring into my soul, loving me without question and heartbroken that I could not return that love in time, then I shall take that fate if it means having the chance to see him one last time. I feel compelled by emotions I do not yet entirely comprehend, by a need for redemption and understanding. If I do not do this, I know I'll come to regret it in time. It's not fair to any of us to lead the life of a liar, even if the lies are only to one's own heart. But it goes beyond that; if I chose to stay with Raoul, my disservice would be not only to myself, but to him, my oldest and dearest friend – it would be a disservice to Erik to continue to deny a love that has always been in the wings.

In all of these weeks of reflection, all of this I can say without a doubt is true.

~~oOo~~

I expressed my feelings to Raoul as well as I was able the next morning. He and I sat facing each other in one of many gardens, isolated from his home and the prying eyes of his disapproving family. No one but us had ventured out that far in the hours since the snowfall ceased, and the untouched landscape was bright all around us, hills rolling gracefully into the horizon, benches and fountains covered in white as if nestled under blankets for the remainder of the winter. It gave me courage to be in that environment; I needed all the strength I could get to break off our engagement, and the cold air and startlingly blue sky seemed to say that everything would be right again once I was done; a new start.

"What are you saying, Christine?" Raoul seemed in shock when I uttered my last words.

"I can't marry you, Raoul. It wouldn't be fair. Not to you, not to any of us."

"You're seriously considering going back to him?"

"Only to speak to him."

"Then why not just do that? Seek him out, say your peace, and be done with it. I wouldn't stop you, I'd certainly want to go along to ensure your safety, but if this is troubling you, I wouldn't stop you from saying what you need to. Then you could come home and we can finally have closure."

"Oh, Raoul," I sighed, "Can't you see? It's so much more than that. I love you, but not in the way you need me to, not in the way you deserve. I love you as I would love any dear friend, someone I've known and cherished as long as you. But I don't love you in the way that a wife should love a husband. It wouldn't be fair. You deserve that life, not a lie."

"How can you be so sure, though? After all we've been through. Perhaps we need only to postpone the wedding. You especially have been through a horrible shock. Christine, are you sure you know what you're saying?" he asked gently.

"I am. I know I told you that I've been feeling many conflicting emotions, but of this I am quite certain. Postponing the wedding would only be delaying the inevitable. We'd marry, yes, but we would grow to resent one another. Our love wouldn't be sincere."

"My love for you _is_ sincere."

"Now it is, yes, but with time, when I cannot prove to love you completely, your love will falter. You and I are only human. We cannot live lies and expect to get through to the end unscathed. I will not do that to you."

He looked at me sadly, but I knew my words had settled in his heart. Perhaps he had known it all along, or perhaps he was too much of a gentleman to try and change my mind, but either way he accepted my words. I felt guilty, but it had to be done. I meant everything I said, and in telling him the truth I knew I was doing the right thing. He did deserve better than half a heart, and if I could give him the chance to find that with time, then these moments of pain would be worth it. No, it wasn't easy for me to say the words that would end us, not in the least, because I did truly have affection toward my friend. But in that sadness there was the comforting knowledge that he would be given a fair chance in life, something we should all be so lucky to find.

"It hurts to see this end," he whispered solemnly.

"I know it does, darling, I know. I'm so very sorry."

"You needn't be. Just know that I do love you. There's nothing I regret in having known you."

Tears welled in my eyes at his words; I knew they were of sincerity and not a ploy to make me feel guilty, and I was overcome by my appreciation for him, "You'll never know how much that means to me," I sighed, "I hope you know that I feel the same."

"I suppose everything happens for a reason."

"I suppose so."

"Are you sure you will be safe? Seeing him?"

"He would never hurt me. As fearful as I was before, I'm sure of that now."

"And if he rejects you?"

"Raoul, I'm not seeking to have him take me in. I just need to see him. I told you that."

"I'm just afraid. If he won't even speak to you, what will you do then?"

"It's quite alright. I'm going to arrange to stay with Madame Giry and Meg. I will never be unsafe no matter where I find myself."

He sighed, "If you're sure. But please know this. You are always welcome here."

I squeezed his hands, "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

~~oOo~~

Meg's eyes widened so comically when she opened the door to me, I had to stifle a laugh. It was an odd sensation; I had long since thought that such light emotions were lost to me.

"Christine? Is everything alright? Mama hadn't mentioned that you were coming here. Please, come in."

We embraced when I entered the small apartment, "Oh Meg, I seem to have thrown myself headlong into something I don't quite understand yet, not entirely, but I need to talk to Madame, it's quite urgent."

"What do you mean, dear? What's going on?"

"Christine?" Madame Giry called from another part of the home, "Dear child, we weren't expecting you. Has something happened?"

"I've left Raoul," I blurted out nervously, "I've broken off the engagement."

They both looked at me, so stunned at my sudden and unexpected admission that neither of them could speak at first. Madame Giry led me to their sitting room demanding further explanation in her stern, concerned way that I had grown to love after all the years living under her guidance. I told them what I had told Raoul, but the reaction was quite different indeed.

"Foolish child, do you have any idea what you're doing? All that you're giving up to see this man?"

"Madam, I do understand the gravity of the situation, but I couldn't lie to myself or Raoul anymore. It's just as I said, it wouldn't be fair to anyone involved."

"My dear, you of course may stay with us, if it is indeed true that you are no longer in love with the vicompte, but I have to put my foot down on this plan of yours. You cannot see Erik."

"Why? Please, just tell me that much. Don't I deserve this closure?"

"What exactly makes you so desperate for it?"

"Oh Madame," I said hopelessly, "It's too much to bear. So many things remain unspoken, unanswered. I need to know if he's safe, I need to see for myself. I have to know what led him to his actions. I…I have to know he's not evil," I whispered the end.

"And what concern is that of yours, Christine?" Madame Giry asked very gently.

"Because in all this time since the fire, since he escaped the mob, I have realized just how much I care for him. I've realized that I love him, and have for a very long time," Meg gasped but I continued, "I have to know who it is that I fell in love with, to give it a chance."

Madame Giry sighed again, looking defeated but giving me a knowing glance. Once I said the words aloud, she seemed to understand immediately, as if she had known longer than I had of all the feelings that I had just admitted. At long last, she agreed to take me to the place to which Erik had fled.

On the journey there, she told me all that had happened to him in the time since our separation, her involvement in his life, and what his next step would be. Hesitantly, she revealed to me that he was in a bad way, trying to numb himself yet sliding down further and further into a black depression that she feared would end in his demise. My heart ached for him as I took in her words; his tragic life had taken on that much more darkness, and I knew my involvement in it was deep. I wanted so badly to make amends as quickly as possible, to somehow reach him and pull him from the nightmare in which he now resides, yet willing the carriage to do so didn't prove to make it go any faster, much to my despair.


	2. Turn Your Thoughts Away

**Author's Note:** _Welcome back, all those that have chosen to continue on up to this point! Thank you to readers and reviewers! This is a somewhat short chapter but I hope it will suffice until tonight/early tomorrow; that's when it really gets good (evil grin). There's something I'm hoping to establish now that will be further explained later, so I'm hoping this chapter will be a good interlude of sorts to set the mood for that. Of course I will explain in further detail later. In the meantime, once again one and all, enjoy!_

Chapter 2 – Turn Your Thoughts Away

Erik

I haven't cried since the night Christine left; I've made sure of that perfectly, putting myself into a near-catatonic state simply for the sake of feeling nowhere near as terrible as I should. Tonight, my mind is in a haze yet again. I need it this way. The brandy burns my throat, makes my senses flair and my thoughts disjointed as it makes its way through my veins, but each shot takes me further and further away from the worst of myself. I know that if I don't allow myself to waste away in this manner, I might surely do something unforgivable. I might venture out to see her, beg for forgiveness, for love. I might make a misstep and be recognized and captured. I might pick up the gun in the corner of the room and take aim at my head…

Instead I wallow in regret, and yes, I may sink down into the darkest pits of my fetid soul, and I may be entirely unsuccessful in my attempts to hate her, but so long as I let the alcohol run its poison all through me, I know I will not be compelled to do anything foolhardy. Even in the deepest of despair, I know I cannot allow myself to leave this house, my self-imposed prison; doing so would guarantee my capture, and I will not be taken down that way. I will not be treated like an animal in my final moments – I honestly fear that more than the gun. Word traveled farther and faster than I could after the disaster, so before I could make my final escape I was forced to take shelter here in secret with Madame Giry's help. Until I can safely travel once more, this is where I must isolate myself yet again. I certainly resent being trapped, but even so my pride will not allow me to be hunted down and taken by a mob thirsty for my blood.

I raise the bottle to my lips once again and feel the shame engulf me as I stare thoughtfully into the fireplace, the flames dancing hypnotically as I muse bitterly to myself. I'm better off alone, really. My small taste of happiness was entirely undeserved, and to pursue it for as long as I had was my biggest downfall. Knowing this, I cannot bring myself to hate Christine, as hard as I've tried to convince myself to do so. But no, this was not her fault. I can only blame myself for thinking that she could love me, that I deserved such a gift from anyone. When I look back on my actions, I feel an anger at myself so deep I'm almost sure it will break me. Another set of mistakes to add to my repitoir, another collection of memories to prove that I am indeed the monster that the world has seen me to be all my life. I hate myself for that; I never wanted it to be this way. I never wanted to be evil.

My anger turns into a sudden rage as I lament the events in my life that have led me to this point. Without realizing it, I stood to face away from the fire into an empty and dimly-lit room. This constant reminder of my solitude proved to be too much for me; I raised the bottle of brandy and threw it as hard as I could at the opposite wall, letting out a guttural scream in the process. As I stood, panting and wide-eyed, I was left once again only with a feeling of deep regret. That's how it always happens, I've come to realize – one action leading to another without warning or reason, based purely on a momentary need for a release of feelings too intense to cope with rationally; I fear these wild emotions will one day soon swallow me whole.

~~oOo~~

I realized the sun had set at the same time I noticed my sobriety returning to me; it was an annoying fact, but I chose to do nothing about it. I could have retrieved yet another bottle of brandy and had it well on its way to being empty in no time, but at that moment I couldn't bring myself to take the steps. Either way I felt numb; perhaps this hopelessness is simply a well-deserved punishment, and if so, taking the edge off with alcohol seemed to be pointless. I deserve to suffer, simple as that. I really must stop trying to fool myself into thinking I deserve better than this.

I was startled by a knock at the door; this house is far off any main roads – I chose it to be that way on purpose, and for good reason, but I still feared the odd passerby stopping by to quell their curiosity at the light in my window. I couldn't trust anyone. The knock on the door, however, turned into a familiar pattern and I immediately relaxed. It was only Madame Giry; had we not invented that coded pattern, she would have never been allowed access to the house – I didn't even dare look out a window for fear of being recognized.

When I opened the door, I felt as though my heart was going to pound its way out of my chest. I had to wonder if I was hallucinating; Christine stood just behind Madame Giry, and when she met my eyes, I felt both confused and angry.

"Madame?" I whispered to the aging ballet mistress, looking her now in the eyes and feeling quite betrayed. A voice in the back of my mind told me it was over, that Madame Giry had finally grown weary of trying to keep me safe while we waited for safe passage out of France and had simply turned me in to the one person she knew had the ultimate power over me. It was an absurd, paranoid notion, but I felt the dread just the same. I would never go willingly into the hands of neither mobs nor lawmen, but I'd follow Christine into Hell if she asked it of me; if she was there to convince me to turn myself in, as I had assumed, then I would have done so if only to abide by her sense of justice.

"You are not in trouble, Erik. Mademoiselle Daae insisted that I bring her here."

I shook my head, coming back to reality with a swift and deep sense of hurt and anger, "You may both leave, then. I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing at, but I will have none of it. You're not welcome here," I spat, looking directly at Christine when I said those last words. I slammed the door with force enough to shake the house, leaned against the frame and slid down to the floor.

The whole exchange had happened so fast that I scarcely had time to understand the reality of the situation or collect my thoughts before I once again lost control of myself. I cried then; seeing Christine so unexpectedly had effectively torn away my last bit of resolve to feel nothingness. It would have been a small mercy then to finally allow hatred to cloud my memories of her, effectively taking the cards and putting the hand back in my favor. But no matter how much I tried to deny it, she still held my heart in her hands, and to force myself to turn her away for the sake of my sanity was almost more than I could bear. I didn't want to know what brought her here. All I wanted in that moment was to disappear entirely, to put an end to my misery.

I'm so tired.

 **Author's Note:** _Oh, Erik, you broody little bastard. How I love your crap. Now open the damn door. ;)_


	3. Your Twisted Shell

**Author's Note:** _Welcome back again! I'm hoping everyone is finding this piece satisfactory so far. I'm hoping what I'm doing here progresses the story well enough to keep the readers' attention without either dragging or rushing. The next chapter should be up very soon, it was written with this one as one large chapter, but as usual I ended up needing to cut them in half, so once editing is done, four should be up within a few hours, I trust. In the meantime, enjoy some good old-fashioned Erik Angst. I know, I'm **so** following common tropes of POTO fanfiction, but what can I say, I'm a sucker for the classics. ;) Happy reading! _

Chapter 3 – Your Twisted Shell

Christine

The carriage rocked and rattled ominously on the uneven country roads as Madame Giry drove through the darkness back to Paris. Although we were side-by-side, we rode on in complete silence; I had no words left for anyone for the moment, my thoughts focused and oddly determined. I had been expecting just that reaction, had known all along that I wouldn't be met with open arms into the strong embrace I so desperately longed for. Still, even in convincing myself to be realistic, I was hurt by the sound of the slamming door just the same. _You're not welcome here,_ his low, steady voice echoed in my mind. He looked me in the eyes as he said it, seemed to be determined to sever the last bonds that remained between us. I had to let that thought go if I had a chance to see this through to the end; somehow I couldn't completely believe that this was over for any of us. No, he would put up a fight, I had known that all along. He felt cornered, his mind so full of darkness and despair by then; I knew he wasn't going to let his guard down, not without some effort on my part.

I wouldn't let his clouded judgment deter me from going to him once more the following night – and every night if need be – trying to compel him to listen to me, to give me answers. If it ended with us proclaiming our love, then all the better. But I knew, still resolved to the possibility, that even if this fateful turn of events would be the end of us, that I would have at least have been given the chance to know for myself exactly how it all turned out. I wouldn't be left to wonder about the endless possibilities and long for absolution, wouldn't have to face my own end thinking I hadn't done all that I could to give him the love he needed and that I longed to return to him from my own poor, sincere heart. If all I could have from him were my memories of a brief time long since passed, then that would be enough – it would be all I deserved after all I had done to those I loved the most.

~~oOo~~

The following night, I set out on my own and pushed through the blackness of midnight on a solitary mare, knowing she could propel us faster unhindered by any cart or carriage. My sense of urgency grew with each passing mile; the look in his eyes from the night before stood out in my mind's eye like a terrible omen. The emotions that lie just beneath the surface of his guarded expression spoke volumes, haunting in their depth and intensity, swirling in his hurt expression as though twisting spikes through his very soul. I knew the longer it took for me to get through to him, the farther he would fall away from any chance of rescue. The thought terrified me; after everything Madame Giry had told me, my greatest fear grew to be the vision of finding him alone in the house, his gun still gripped in his cold hands as he lay lifeless before me. I tried to push the horrid thought away as my horse panted on through the night, but I could not entirely rid myself of the fear. He was close to his breaking point, and God knew how much he had been forced to endure to get there. He hadn't much strength left to give himself, no matter how hard he fought for it. I couldn't lose him, not that way.

For three nights, in spite of Meg and Madame Giry vehemently protesting my mad flight into darkness, I made the long journey to Erik's secluded house. Each night was the same, nearly down to the last detail – I pounded away on the door as if in a frenzy, calling out to him and begging admittance, and each time he opened the door only slightly and refused my company, cutting off all communication before I could say another word. I knew he wasn't reveling in that act of rejection; each night his eyes said what he could not, _please stop this, leave me, just forget me._ But I refused to abandon my pursuit – if anything I continued to go back if only to prove to myself that he had made it through another day. Even just that brief glimpse of him standing tall and unharmed was enough to calm me for a time. But by the fourth night my patience grew very brittle; I was so frustrated by his rejection that I was more aggressive than I had intended to be, and when he opened the door yet again, I rather unceremoniously shouldered my way past him.

"Do you mind?" he said, quite shocked at my sudden display of rudeness, "I believe I've been making my point quite clear, mademoiselle. I don't want you here. I honestly cannot understand why you're insisting upon invading my solitude, but it needs to cease."

"No," I said as I looked him squarely in the eyes, "I'm not leaving here, Erik. I'll keep coming back until you speak to me, I promise you that. You owe me that much."

~~oOo~~

Erik

It's a strange feeling, wanting to die. After spending so many years fighting to give my life some semblance of peace and normalcy, it seems my efforts have been in vain. I don't want to fight anymore; taking my own life just seems like the next most practical step. The gun is cold and heavy in my hands, its weight taking on a power of its own. One shot, one bullet aimed just so, and I could be done with it. But I cannot make the next and most final move. And that's what strikes me as so strange – this feeling of such utter hopelessness that I feel physical pain at the idea of having to carry on, holding my ticket out of this world freely in my hand, yet every time I try to raise it to my temple, I am frozen on the spot. I cannot do it. Oh, the desire is there, but the fear outweighs that need for eternal escape.

I recall the priest from my childhood discussing the matter; there is no way around it, suicide is a sin that cannot be absolved. We are simply supposed to let our Father give us the comfort we need until He decides it is time to depart from this world and travel to the next. It is supposed to be a benevolent notion, that somehow even the pain of our darkest moments being acknowledged and quietly comforted by God is supposed to bring some sort of redemption, but it stings me just the same when I think of that lesson. Whether I can still trust in a master that I've felt long since abandoned by, benevolent or otherwise, I cannot take the risk of having to endure an eternity of torture. I would be trading one life of pain for another far worse, all in the pursuit of being released from the cage of suffering that is my existence. All I long for is peace, but I can take no such idea into my arms of my own choosing – the choice is not mine.

God is cruel.

But even so, the feeling, the strange and alluring urge to take my own life persists, and I am left once again at a standstill; I cannot bear to stay, I fear going out by my own hand. It truly scares me how bad it's gotten, how deeply this despair runs this time around. I'm no stranger to the feeling, but each time it comes up on me, it's worse than the last. The more it worsens, the more I want out – a very vicious cycle indeed. The demons within me and the ghosts of my past continue to come back at me with a vengeance, and I fear they are closer to their victory than ever before. Whatever it is that's wrong with me, no relief seems to be in sight, nothing calms my troubled mind or numbs the pain for any substantial amount of time. What I thought might finally do so was only a fleeting thing; the love I sought to take me out of Hell only proved to sink me deeper into its flames.

But there's no way out of this. I put the gun away once more; I'm sure the debate will continue on tomorrow evening, and all after that until something finally gives, but for now I'm too exhausted to do anything but concede.

I sighed and suddenly felt very foolish; once the worst of the pain had passed, I was left once again with a sense of shame and regret. It all felt so hopelessly melodramatic, and I certainly would rather have skipped the whole ordeal altogether. I would much rather set myself up to fester in the aftermath of my most recent actions at the opera house without all of this horrible melancholy to boot.

It was past midnight when I glanced at the clock. She would be calling for me again any moment now, if the past three nights were to be relied upon as a sign of things to come. I loved her for her persistence, yet resented her trying to force her presence in the first place. I still had no desire for learning the truth behind her coming here; to learn the truth, I'm sure, would be far too painful, and I am entirely unprepared to add another event to my list of woes.

I hear the pounding on the door before long and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the words that I know I must say to her, if only to make her realize that she's not wanted here. She can assume what she wants of my meaning; I simply don't want any more pain.

~~oOo~~

It was hard enough to have her so near as she ushered me aside – the contact might have been just enough to thaw my heart had I not been so convinced that she only came meaning to do me harm. But when she told me what had happened these last several weeks, her long nights of contemplation and her ultimate decision to leave a life of guaranteed comfort, I felt veritably ill. No, this was all wrong – she was being entirely childish, jumping so hastily into a situation that could only serve to break us even further. She wanted answers, wanted to make confessions, but as much as I wanted to simply hold her and be grateful to be in her presence at long last, I refused to let my guard down. On top of everything else, my pride was writhing within me. I had done the gentlemanly thing once she made it clear that she was not leaving then, playing the good host by offering her a warm seat by the fire, but as she told her story, I wanted nothing more than to take back what little hospitality I could offer.

"I should think you would have learned to stay away from me by now," I said bitterly when she had finished speaking, "I don't know what you expect to achieve in coming to me now."

"I've already told you," she retorted impatiently with narrowed eyes, "I need answers. There are things I need to tell you, but I need my answers first. Please, if you can only do me one last kindness now, let it be this."

I exhaled in a huff of anger, "We owe each other nothing."

"You can't mean that. I should say you at least owe me a great deal."

"And you?" I snapped raising my eyebrow in a challenging expression.

"I owe you the respect of telling you the truth. At least, that's all I'm willing to give you for the moment should you continue to fight me on this."

"And what is that, exactly, this truth you're holding onto so dearly? I'm not going to sit here and grovel and bear my soul to you in the hopes that what you have to say might redeem me," I spat, "I will give you no more fodder for this game."

"What makes you think I'm playing at anything, Erik?"

"Hasn't that been what you've been doing all along?" I whispered viciously, and continued without thinking, "It's been that way since the beginning, hasn't it? You aimed to use me, to use anyone you could, to take care of you. Stupid, foolish child, I should say, yet it was I that acted foolishly in believing that you truly might have cared for me."

"How dare you? If that's all you think of me, then I might as well go back to Madame Giry's home right now. You're obviously too pigheaded to see that I did nothing but practically worship you, thought of you as so awe-inspiring and powerful that I was lucky to merely hear your voice. I never intended to use you," she stood up and I mirrored the gesture, "If you won't give me the courtesy of hearing me out without insulting my character, then I will leave to Madame without hesitation."

"Please, my darling," I bit back sarcastically, " _Do that_. Go to wherever and to whomever you please. It's no longer my concern, I assure you. Go to Madame, go back to the De Chagney estate, damn it, you could off and find yourself a place in a brothel for all I care."

She slapped me then, and with enough force to turn my head and leave a stinging sensation behind where her hand had made contact with my skin. My temper flaring dangerously once more, I grabbed her wrist, trying with all the consciousness I could muster to not hold her too tightly.

"Enough of this!" I yelled, "You need to leave. We cannot continue this farce. I cannot be responsible for my actions if you continue to push me, Christine."

"I'm not leaving," she said with deathly evenness.

"Excuse me?" I let her wrist out of my grip, tossing her hand from me in an effort to convey that I wanted to discard her from my heart.

"I am _not_ leaving here now. And you will _not_ be permitted to speak to me that way _ever_ again," she yelled, "You will not hurt me with your words. I will not allow you to build a wall of spite to deter me anymore. We've gone too long under that regime, the pretense of the past needs to end now."

I took a deep breath.


	4. All We Are Is Bullets

**Author's Note:** _Hello again and thank you all for your kind words and encouragement! I'm sorry that this chapter didn't get posted as quickly as I had promised. Earlier this afternoon, the baby decided to introduce Mr. Laptop to Mr. Tile Floor. Now, for anyone that has a baby that uses a walker, you can understand the moment of terror I felt. Luckily, Baby Boy is completely fine, no bumps or bruises for his efforts, although he was enraged that I had to put him in his playpen to clean up the mess. That child does not like to be immobile. Well anyway, my laptop was having some trouble getting going after hitting the ground so hard, and I was absolutely sure and terrified that I had lost chapter 4 for good. My husband, however, was able to fix whatever was wrong, and nothing was lost. The moral of the story: Laptops should not reside on coffee tables when infants are present, and backup **everything** that is of any importance on your computers. _

_So, before we begin, I would like to comment on the chapter you're about to read a little bit. First, I hope y'all don't mind there being a lot of dialogue. I mean, a lot. And the reason I did it this way is because there were some explanations that needed to happen. I've been reading some chatter recently on various POTO blogs and forums about a theory that Erik might have had a borderline personality disorder. Well, it just so happens that I was diagnosed with the very same thing some time ago, and in putting the pieces together based on my own experiences and research on the illness, I must say that it makes a lot of sense that Erik might have been plagued with the same thing. I was lucky to have been able to get medication and treatment, but I still had to wade through much darkness in my life to come out the other side strong. It took time, but I'm grateful for what I have now. Erik, however, lived in a time where such a diagnosis didn't even exist, let alone any kind of treatment. It would seem that his behaviors - fits of rage, extreme depressions, rocky relationships, etc - and the presence of abuse in his childhood would make him very likely to have developed this disorder. And so, having read this chatter and known the reality of it myself, I decided to incorporate it into the story; it fit so well, and it's somewhat of a comfort in some way to think that our beloved Phantom was not truly evil, just had some fucked up things going on that the was powerless to control. Anyway, that said, I hope that this chapter is satisfactory._

 _Enjoy!_

Chapter 4 – All We Are Is Bullets

Erik

I exhaled slowly, "You're right," I said softly, finally realizing the truth in her words and coming to my senses once more. I was ashamed of myself for my lapse in control, and I needed to consciously maintain my composure if we were to get through this evening safely. Something in me softened and I felt ready enough to at least listen. For better or worse, we were facing the results of a situation that had grown to overpower us, and we needed to face our demons somehow if we ever hoped to recover – I couldn't deny it. To answer her would be another story, but I knew then that I could take in her words without losing control of myself yet again, "Forgive me, please, Christine. You are absolutely right in this. Please, sit. I'll listen."

"Will you answer my questions?"

"As is see fit, yes."

"I suppose that's all I can ask for, at this point," she sighed as she took her place by the fire once again, "There's so much I need to know. I scarcely know where to begin."

"May I start, pose a question of my own, then?"

"Yes, you may."

"This isn't easy to ask," I said softly, directing my gaze away from her eyes, "There are so many rumors, and Madame Giry feels that my knowing information could only harm me at this point. Christine, what exactly became of the opera house? After the disaster, was it…was it as bad as they say?"

"What _have_ you heard?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Well, it," she paused before collecting her thoughts again, "It was mercifully a short-lived disaster."

"What does that mean?"

"The fire was put out quickly. It only spread through the auditorium and into some of the foyer. Honestly it truly did look worse from the outside. I remember leaving and thinking the building would be long-gone the next day," she put her hand over mine in a gesture of comfort, "It is all entirely repairable."

"How many people died?" I whispered the part I dreaded the most, unsure if I wanted to hear just how much blood was on my hands after all.

"One woman. A long-time patron."

While I was relieved that the death toll was nowhere near what I had thought it was, I raised my eyebrows sardonically, "Well, you would think I had slaughtered an entire village for all that has been said about me."

"Erik, all rumors aside, you have to realize that mobs were formed because you had finally given them what they needed to find themselves at their wits end. The straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. Anyone that had lived through your time at the opera house was weary of living in fear but otherwise confident that they were not in immediate danger, but the acts of violence, the murders, those could not be brushed off as cruel jokes."

"I understand that. Believe me, I'm aware of that fact," I laughed humorlessly, "I enjoyed my time as the Opera Ghost far more when the title didn't leave me dreaming of spilled blood and fighting for air."

She looked very solemnly at me, "What changed? You were for so long a person of a tragic beauty, your confidence, my God your _arrogance,_ for so long had been something so oddly wonderful. Why did it have to turn violent?"

"You're asking me why the evil inside me finally surfaced? It's not as if it was the first time."

"I don't think you're evil – "

"– Oh, but it's true," I couldn't contain myself once again, suddenly desperate to share what had troubled me for so long, I looked into her eyes and made my confession sadly, "Can't you see that, Christine? There's something deeply _wrong_ with me. For so long, for my entire life it seems that I've had this darkness following me, no emotion could I feel without this shadow looming over my heart. I cannot remember a time when I could feel happiness, even with you it was tainted by this…this nagging feeling that I didn't deserve it,"

"But you did. Everyone deserves to be happy."

I stood up, suddenly feeling unbearably restless at my hasty admission, ignoring her small attempt to comfort me again, "There's more, though. I cannot let go of anger, it is so deeply ingrained in me that at any moment I feel that I could snap, and in those moments when I do lose myself, my eyes turn to coal and a red mist overcomes me that makes me feel absolutely _murderous._ You've _seen_ it, Christine. I don't want it to be that way. I've never been _fond_ of society, to put it lightly, never have been treated well by people, but to have become such a being as I was the last thing I wanted. Anyone that's died by my hand, oh no, I didn't want to be the one to snuff out the candles. And any time this happens, any time I lose control of my emotions, my very behaviors, I'm aware of it – the _wrongness –_ the _entire_ time. Yet I can do nothing to stop it. It makes me sick, the guilt I feel is so consuming that I fear any day it might be enough to send me over the edge. There is indeed something very wrong with me, an evilness that has me so ensnared that to even consider that I may have a chance at redemption is laughable."

"Oh, Erik."

"Everyone has been right about me, my dear," I continued sadly, "I have truly gone mad. I never have been, nor will I ever be the angel that I had wanted to be for you."

"Madame Giry fears that you're going to kill yourself any day now, that you'll either drink yourself mad or you'll become so desperate that you do it by your own hand. Is that true? These feelings you have, are they going to lead you to that decision?"

"I'd be lying if I didn't say I had thought about it," I responded with a sigh, "I had hoped Madame hadn't picked up on it, but yes, I think there is a very real chance that my resolve to live won't last much longer. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, but you said you wanted the truth. Part of me thinks it's for the best, just one less bit of evil on this earth."

"But I don't think you're evil," she said thoughtfully after a small pause, the silence filled only by my attempt to control my breathing and the crackling of the fire, "I don't think it's an evil that has overtaken you, Erik."

"You give me far too much credit," I said, shaking my head slowly, "You're oversimplifying it."

"No, I don't believe that," she said pleadingly, "I cannot condone your actions, but it's clear to me, now that I'm learning this, that you are no less the victim of circumstances beyond your control than anyone else."

"I am no victim," I sneered, turning to her once more, "Far from it, I'd say."

"Not in so many words, but you cannot deny that you were tossed out to the world with a very unfair disadvantage. All you've known is abuse and suffering," she put her hand on my shoulder when I turned my back to her, but continued despite my tension, "You are not evil. You may be sick at heart, an illness brought on by your burdens, but you are not evil."

"What does it matter? It doesn't change the past. What's done is done, either way I'm a murderer, either way I live a life of madness."

"You didn't enjoy the deaths. That's why it matters."

"You'll be hard-pressed to try and convince me, my darling. But it _doesn't_ matter. So answer _me_ now, why did you need to know this so badly?"

She looked very intently into my eyes, "I had to know what led to that last night we were together, what had happened in your mind to go from one extreme to the other. Now that I know that the person I love is truly a man and neither an angel nor a monster, I had to know what had broken that man's spirit. That's it, that's what I most needed to say to you tonight, why I came to find you. Because I love you."

I narrowed my eyes at her, "Don't say that word. You cannot believe that you love me."

"I do. I love you. I've known it for a long time, but I couldn't find the words until recently, couldn't allow myself to feel anything beyond childish affection for an old friend. But for you I feel love, I know it."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't mock me."

"How can you say that? I have been entirely honest with you. And despite your foolishness, your terrible actions, I can still say without a doubt that I am in love with you. That must mean something."

I shook my head, "Maybe you don't mock me then, and you know how I feel about you, but this cannot happen between us," I took her hands gently, my eyes pleading with her to take my words to heart, "I have loved you for so long, Christine, I love you so much. Please remember that. But knowing this, knowing how we feel about each other at last, it is not enough. It won't repair the damage of too many hasty decisions and hurtful actions, nor will it make the future guaranteed to be a pleasant one. I don't even know what is going to happen to me, you know that. We cannot live under such uncertainty. I love you, and because I do I will not curse you to a life with me. And from what you told me earlier, that seems to be exactly what you want. Am I wrong in assuming that?"

"You're not. That's what I want to see, if we can somehow build a future together, or at least consider going down that path to begin with. And where is my say in this, Erik? Do you believe, after all of this, that I am incapable of making my own decisions? Coming here was not easy, and I knew from the beginning that we would struggle. All I'm asking is for you to say you will continue to return my love after tonight, that you're willing to take the risk with me and see what comes of it."

"This is far more complicated than you seem to realize. The marriage that I yearned for during our time at the opera house simply cannot be, far too much has happened. I think it would be best if you left me now. Go back to Madame Giry and forget me. Let your heart heal, let mine," I brushed a lock of hair from her face tenderly, reveling in the contact.

"I can't," she had begun to cry then, "I thought it would suffice to see you one last time, but I cannot bring myself to leave like this."

"Please."

"You're a liar, Erik."

"What?" I asked, shocked by the abrupt statement.

"If you truly loved me, you wouldn't be so willing to let me go again."

She didn't move after that statement, she simply crossed her arms over her chest and sobbed helplessly. I hadn't wanted that at all; it broke my heart to see her cry because of me yet again. I knew we had to stop this, we were walking a tightrope trying to balance the burdens of our lives, and each moment we spent arguing this point was only adding more weight, threatening to topple us into a disastrous fall from which we would certainly never recover. If we ended it now, for good, there might still be hope. I had to keep telling myself that; I was certainly in no emotional state to be able to give myself over to a love so strong that it had already altered our lives once, to think of entering into that uncertainty again was sure to be too much. It would only be a matter of time before I lost control once more and let my black emotions drown me slowly before finally taking me at last. I wouldn't put her through that again.

But to see her crying, to think she believed that my heart was not entirely devoted to her…I was moving toward her before I realized what I was doing. I took her in my arms and pulled her close to me. We looked in each other's eyes for a long moment, the turmoil apparent for both of us as we stood on the precipice of an action that would bridge the gap between us. She knew what I was intending; it could be felt in the very air around us. I put my hands on either side of her face, gently letting my fingers entwine into her soft hair, and slowly I leaned in and kissed her. It was soft, at first, an affectionate reminder of what we once shared, but it wasn't long before the kiss deepened. She raised her arms to put around my shoulders, and the contact made me long to be even closer to her; I moved one arm to her waist and brought her to me until there was no longer any space between us. In kissing her, I felt my soul want to come alive again, I wanted nothing more than to throw my hands up and let fate take control from there. There was so much passion in that contact, so much desire for closeness and love that it had to be right, our coming together after so long had to mean something.

But I couldn't let it continue, couldn't raise false hopes and allow a moment of her suffering because of me. Reality was not going to alter to meet the desires of my lovesick heart, erasing the past and healing us completely. When the kiss ended, the nightmare in which we lived would continue all around us, more pain ensured so long as we attempted to be together.

"Go," I said gruffly, parting us forcefully. She looked at me with hurt and confusion as I continued, "We can't. I'm so sorry. We can't let this happen. Please leave me, please understand why I do this." I backed away from her, trying to calm my racing thoughts. So much had happened in one evening, it was hard for me to believe those events even shared the same lifetime.

"I don't understand," she cried helplessly, "I thought – "

I couldn't meet her eyes, "You must go," was all I could bring forth.

She didn't protest then, but the energy in the air around us had turned angry. Before I knew it, the front door had slammed. I knew it was over, I had effectively cut off the last bit of hope she might have held out for us. In talking to her that evening, I knew she held onto it like a sacred artifact, but it had to end. I could still feel her lips on mine, her arms around me in a gesture of love and acceptance; it was a burning ache that left me wanting nothing more than to take her up in my arms again and never let go. That moment of true bliss, that perfect expression of love so long denied and finally realized caused me immeasurable pain; I knew it had to end at that for her sake and my own, and I would never know such a moment again.

A brief moment of happiness once again overshadowed by the darkness of my life, my past.

God is cruel indeed.


	5. I Looked Into Your Heart

**Author's Note:** _If you're still reading, welcome back! I hope the last chapter helped to explain some things, because as I stated before, there wasn't really a great understanding of how to diagnose and treat mental illness back in the day. So I'm working with ways to write it in well, in a way that is believable and realistic. Anywhoodles, I'm rambling. This chapter is hella long, I was going to divide it as I usually do, but there wasn't a great opportunity to do so without breaking up the natural flow of things. There's a lot of dialogue, but I feel that it will be a good read. Hoping to have the next chapter up soon, but it's a subject that I haven't written in-depth before, so I'm hoping to keep it classy and make sure it follows the mood/style that I've been trying to convey so far. Well, I've said too much as it is, so enjoy! Please R &R, I'd like to know if I'm on the right track. :)_

Chapter 5 – I Looked Into Your Heart

Christine

I was seething, absolutely fuming, when I left him that night. I was humiliated and hurt – that he could kiss me the way he did yet still be able to send me away was beyond my level of comprehension. I had finally felt that clarification had come to me, that we now had a point from which we could begin to rebuild. Even if it was a slow process, even if the wounds didn't heal immediately, at least we had something more tangible than before. But he still didn't want to move forward. I could almost see the reason behind his hesitance – he had made a lot of sense, in the most basic and practical terms. But part of me felt that it wasn't enough, it was no excuse. To let fear hold us back once more seemed like an insult to our love. So when I mounted my mare intending to go back to Madame Giry's home, I seriously considered that it would be the last time I made the journey; going back after the events that had transpired between us seemed foolish.

But in being perfectly honest with myself, I knew my resolve would falter before long. I couldn't make my feelings disappear, couldn't hush my heart's longing to hold him once more. I worried for him still, more so after having so many suspicions confirmed. I didn't want to be solely responsible for his life – doing so seemed unhealthy – yet I still held out hope that in reaching him I could somehow help him to find his own strength again. Until that happened, I knew I would worry myself into a frenzy thinking about what he had said to me. _I think there is a very real chance that my resolve to live won't last much longer,_ his whispered confession came back to me once more. If he were to die that way, I surely wouldn't be able to live with myself. Such a waste of a beautifully tragic life, his existence somehow too poetic to be simply cast to the winds; he had a fire within himself that I knew could still flare up once more, bring him back to the power that he exuded when we had our first chance meeting. To let that fire die with him seemed perfectly sinful. I knew it would be impossible to keep away from him.

Realizing this, it had been my initial plan to stay away from him for a short time, to give us both a chance to cool off and perhaps meet on more stable emotional footing. As it turned out, I wouldn't be staying away from him long at all – and certainly not by my choosing. In the time we had spent indoors arguing, another snowstorm had crept in from the north. Low clouds hung overhead, looming over me so still and quiet that I was sure they had frozen time itself; the world seemed to stop, all signs of life stolen back into the night in the moments the clouds decided to reign over the world once more. But the stillness was only a brief and contrasting prelude to what the storm had to offer. I hadn't been away from Erik's hiding place long before the snow began to fall; slowly at first, it soon whipped around me, the howling wind stinging my face and causing the snowflakes to whirl around me in a dizzying frenzy.

I knew that if I attempted to make my way back to Paris in that storm, it would prove to be a heavy mistake. Already becoming disoriented, I'd surely get lost and wind up freezing to death if I tried to get my bearings on my own. I had to turn back and hope Erik would admit me, allow me a small bit of shelter considering the circumstances which compelled me to return.

I prepared my argument as I waited again for him to answer the door, but one look at the growing blizzard behind me told him that I wasn't calling again to just to chat.

"You were almost caught in _that_?" he asked in alarm as he slammed the door against the wind.

"I _was_ caught in it. It took me by surprise. I simply had the presence of mind to turn around before it got worse. I was too far from any other shelter."

"You shouldn't have left here when you saw those clouds."

"Maybe you should have come after me," I snapped.

"Never mind that now," he frowned. "Go back to the fire, try to get warm again."

"My horse is still outside in the flurries, I couldn't find a place to block her from the wind. Do you have anywhere to put her?"

"I do. Wait here," he retrieved a lantern from another part of the room and ventured outdoors. He returned before long, assuring me that the animal was safe with his own. In his haste, he had gone out into the raging storm without a jacket. He stood before me shivering violently, yet almost seeming to be unaware of his discomfort. When he caught me staring at his shaking hands, he said breathlessly, "I'm fine."

"You're not. You need to warm up or you'll catch your death."

"Wouldn't that simply make things more convenient for myself?" he said with a morbid humor.

"That's not at all funny, Erik."

"I apologize," he said seriously and took a seat next to me by the fire, "I'll stay here, alright? I'll warm myself if it keeps you from worrying."

"Thank you," I whispered, then raised my voice somewhat rudely when I saw him reach for a bottle of brandy from the small table between us, "You're not going to drink that now?"

"Aren't I? I hadn't supposed you would be too keen on speaking to me anymore this evening."

I sighed, "I can't say that I was before. But really, Erik, this storm isn't passing any time soon, and I myself am not particularly tired. It seems you and I are going to be spending some time together. I would like to think that you'd prefer to keep your faculties for my sake."

He left the bottle alone and looked at me intently, "Perhaps. What, then, do you propose we do with our time?"

"I don't suppose you were able to smuggle that old organ of yours out here," I asked with a wry smile.

He shook his head, letting a small laugh escape from his smiling lips, "Do you see it here?"

"We could talk, you know," I continued seriously, taking the light-hearted teasing as a sign that I could be candid with him.

"I'm not one for idle conversation."

"Who said I could only provide _idle_ conversation?" I feigned insult, "You should know me better by now, Erik. We've had wonderful talks in the past."

"Certainly. I miss that, actually."

"So do I."

"Alright," he said after looking at me for a time, raising his arms, "You win, we'll sit her and talk awhile. As you're the guest here, you may choose the subject first."

"How very gentlemanly of you," I laughed, "Well, I for one would prefer to continue where we left off earlier this evening."

He frowned, "I should think you would prefer to keep the conversation light."

"You won't discuss it at all?"

"I won't. Pick anything else, but not that. I'm not bending, Christine."

I huffed, feeling like a petulant child, but I knew I would get no further responding that way. I would simply have to make the most of the situation; at least I was safe and warm with the man I loved and not out lost in that terrible weather. I sighed, searching my mind for a topic that wouldn't drive him further away from me. I looked into the fire, then back at him; his hand was at his mouth as he leaned his head into it, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. It was hard to look away from him, his expression was half-heartedly guarded, yet I could still see what danced behind his eyes – the pain and confusion, the lingering love and conflicting desires. He was very thoughtful, and I wanted to know it all.

"What had you planned to do with your time after I left earlier?" I asked hesitantly.

He exhaled and replied slowly, "Well, I certainly wasn't in high spirits. I suppose I would do what I always do, get blindly drunk and contemplate my own demise."

"That isn't funny either."

"Who says I was joking?" He looked at me then, a pleading and sad expression played on the unmasked side of his face.

"You shouldn't have to live this way," I sighed.

"Perhaps not. Yet here I am," he paused, "We shouldn't go down this path. Let us keep the conversation more pleasant, shall we?"

I thought for a moment and continued, "We should start from the beginning. I've come to realize that in all the years I've known you, I don't think I know much about you. How can two people love each other when they're practically strangers?" he gave me a warning look, "Well, that aside, I should think I would like the chance to get to know you again."

"That's fair, I have to admit. What do you want to know, then?"

"Will you answer my questions? Truly?" I said more hopefully than I intended.

"Again, as I see fit," he said seriously, but a grin playing at the sides of his mouth told me it was safe to continue on relatively unhindered.

"Where are you from?" I asked, and the shocked expression on his face reminded me forcefully that he had very likely never been asked such a simple, innocent question before; no one seemed to have cared to get to know the man behind the mask.

"Rouen," he replied slowly.

"Oh, how nice. Was it very beautiful there?"

He shrugged, "I suppose so. I don't remember much, I left when I was very young."

"Where did you go afterward?"

"I traveled quite a bit."

"To where?"

"Many parts of Europe," he said distantly, as if remembering something very dark. I decided to change the subject again.

"What's your last name?"

He looked at me with a shocked expression once more, and laughed as he asked, "What?"

"I don't know your last name, I would like to."

He shook his head, "No, I think I would prefer to keep that bit of information to myself. Besides, it is my turn. Where in Sweden are you from?"

"Stockholm. Well, just outside of it, really, but Papa and I traveled as well, after Mama passed."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, no. It was a wonderful time," I smiled sadly, remembering the joys of my childhood, my wonderful, good-natured father, all he taught me.

"He was good to you," Erik said softly, smiling, "You deserved that."

We talked on a while longer, each answered question easing us into more comfort with each other, a kind of contentment that felt very right to me. It was a starkly different mood than what we had experienced before I had to return from the storm, and that gave me a sense of relief and hope; I dared to believe we really could overcome more than we gave ourselves credit for. While he was still guarded, there seemed to be a certain yearning to be heard; he would tell me only what he felt comfortable with, but even that small advancement was enough to make my heart soar. As the fire warmed us and the storm raged on outside, we were able to in some small way mend a portion of the bonds that had once been so strong even as we stumbled blindly through our lowest points. I knew it was difficult for him to believe that he was allowed to enjoy himself then, but I hoped that at least his heart felt as light as mine, even if only for a short while.

After we opened the discussion, albeit tentatively, about our time together at the opera house, he paused for a long time before speaking again, seeming to weigh the question in his mind before being able to give it breath, "When did you fall in love with me? I've often wondered that."

I smiled, "It's actually a bit of a story. You see, I fell in love with you long before I _realized_ that I was in love with you. It was a sudden thing, it felt strange in my heart, but it was love. It was after…after I had taken off your mask that first time – oh, don't look at me like that, of course I was shocked by what I saw, but it didn't change what happened afterward – after that first time, you had scared me so, you were so very angry, but there was something else. When you had calmed down, all you wanted then was some sense of dignity returned to you, I saw you, truly _saw_ you, as if for the first time. You wore your heart in your hand. You seemed so alive, so real. It was as if I could see into your soul, and what I saw was not a monster, but a man quite lost to himself. I saw your humanity, the love and hurt you carried, and I loved you for it. I fell in love with the first glimpse of a man that I had never entirely seen until then."

He raised his eyebrows, "That's hard to believe."

"Do you doubt it?" I asked, feeling somewhat hurt.

"No. I mean to say, it's hard to believe that you could see past everything else. I daresay you are the first; I cannot even bring myself to do that, oftentimes."

"It was an amazing feeling. I only wish I had learned what it meant sooner," I said sadly, but didn't want to venture down that path again, knowing it would lead back to earlier that evening, a topic he refused to broach, "I could ask the same as you, you know. When did you fall in love with me?"

"So many times over," he responded with a distant air of wonder, "The first time I heard you sing, the first time I looked into your eyes, held your hand, when you first spoke my name and it was as if I was the only person in the world that mattered. The first time my heart skipped a beat knowing you would be near me. But I knew it, really _knew_ the first time I brought you to my home by the lake, when you realized that I was indeed no angel, yet you stayed. You stayed and you sang to me and spoke to me as if I were any other man, as if I were human," he looked up at me, "I loved you the moment I met you, and I kept falling in love with you every day from then on."

I smiled and took his hand, "It's a wonderful thing, when you let it in."

"It is."

"We don't have to keep ourselves away from it, you know. We don't have to let it go tonight."

"Christine," he groaned, taking his hand from mine swiftly, "I told you we can't. We can't allow ourselves to take that risk, and we can't allow ourselves to dream of, to even talk about the possibilities."

"I _cannot_ understand why. I know, on the surface it all makes sense, but deep down, when we really focus on the heart of the matter, it's cruel. How can you not see that? It's cruel to ourselves to deny something so pure, so raw."

"Because the reality of the situation won't change, and I refuse to put you through any more pain. I am in no state of mind to be able to handle much more right now. I've already explained my reasons to you, I'm not continuing this," he said, standing and crossing his arms as if trying to protect himself.

"You have to!" I found myself yelling, "I cannot believe it's so easy for you to cast our love aside. After everything we've been through."

"I've _already_ explained it, I don't know what more you can ask of me, because I've done everything I can, I've said what needed to be said."

"What are you so afraid of?" I asked bitterly.

"Are you serious?" he narrowed his eyes at me, "I'm afraid of losing you! You should know that by now. I'm afraid of you walking out again, of you getting hurt, I'm afraid I'll hurt you. It scares me to death all the things that could go wrong between us, and I'm not willing to take that risk again."

"But aren't I worth that risk?"

"It's not about worth. You are worth more to me than you'll ever know, but that's why I cannot do this anymore."

Tears stung my eyes, and once again I felt frustrated and humiliated, "After everything we've said tonight, after everything we've learned, I should think it would be quite the opposite outcome. I should think you would need me beside you through all of this, that you would want me."

He sighed, "I _do_ need you. I need to look in your eyes and know everything is right, I need you to hold my hand and guide me out of the black pits of sadness that haunt me, and I need your love. It's not about any of that. It's not about me. I want what's best, what's safest for you. I am not that. I can never give you the life you deserve."

"Can't you see that I don't ask much of you?" I reached out and took his hands again, "I'm afraid of losing you, too. And you've given me so much already, more than I deserve. All I want is you. Whatever comes of tonight, if we choose to turn to the unknown, I will take in stride if you can."

"You don't realize what you're saying. I won't let you suffer because of me."

"I suffer without you! I am so much better for having known you, and I know that can only continue should we remain together. I want that, I need that. I need your love as much as you need mine. You're only succeeding in hurting me by staying away."

He took his hands from mine and turned toward the fire, leaning on the mantle and refusing to speak entirely. He shook his head – I knew he was in great pain, how conflicted he felt, how his life had spiraled so badly out of control that he scarcely had the will to endure much more. He was an enigma, a maze of emotions, and I felt that for all the confidence he once had, he had been stripped of so much humanity and dignity that he hardly knew himself anymore. But I did – I knew who he was, who he wanted to be, and how straying so far from that path had hurt him. Yes, I knew all of this, yet I knew not how to ultimately reach him; I had no idea if my words had penetrated his heart at all, and I was at a complete loss at how to continue from that point. I convinced myself that for everything we had accomplished in that long, unexpected discussion, I had only achieved to help him undo any progress we might have made.

I felt utterly drained. As he stood lost in thought, unmoving, I dropped helplessly into my chair once more. I put my face in my hands and cried silently – it was all I had left.

"Lennox," he whispered after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

I wasn't sure at first if he had spoken at all, "What did you say?"

He finally turned to face me, "My last name is Lennox, Christine."

That singular act of bravery that I knew meant the world to both of us and was the last thing he thought he could offer me. I stared wide-eyed at him, absentmindedly realizing that he had given me something somehow very precious to him in an attempt to come back to me, unable to find the words to do so otherwise, but I barely had time to process the information he had volunteered. He pulled me up from my spot – a very quick and determined motion, as if he feared changing his mind at the last second. He took me into his arms and I quickly embraced him, suddenly so grateful for his words, for his very presence.

He kissed me, then, and whatever hint of tenderness there might have been quickly gave way to a sudden, urgent passion shared between the two of us. It was an intense feeling, a need to be close to him, to be whole. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling us closer together as he had done earlier that night. One hand holding my head, the other clutching at my waist as if that were the only thing anchoring him to this earth, he deepened the kiss so that we were lost in ecstasy and exploration. Everything around us seemed to fall away, our troubled thoughts numbed and muted and focusing only on our actions and emotions in that moment.

We parted briefly and he looked me intently in the eyes, searching for something and yet seeming to come to an understanding the very second I did. He was breathing heavily from the intensity of our kiss, his hands finding their way to gently hold my head, running his fingers through my hair. He put his forehead to mine and kissed me very gently, but in that softness there was a question, and I knew the answer immediately. I could forget everything else, put out of mind the obvious and focus on what was to come because I knew, I just _knew._

I wanted him.

 **Author's Note:** _Ugh, I know, another attempt at a last name for Erik. Again, I'm a sucker for tropes. Plus, I love that name, and it's not as painfully obvious as it could have been. So forgive me, but it just had to be done. ;)_


	6. Dance Forever Under the Lights

**Author's Note:** _Hello finally! I'm so so so sorry for the long delay, I'm not sure if anyone was able to see my post in the reviews section, but my computer was being a little shit and not allowing me access to most websites, including this one. Ugh. Well, the issue is fixed thanks to my husband, so I trust that this shouldn't be an issue again. So, that said, here's the latest update, and I'm just going to go ahead and say it now, it's basically a smut chapter. Well, high class, reflective smut, at any rate. But it definitely lives up to the M rating, if I do say so myself. I apologize in advance if it didn't turn out well. Not gonna lie, I've never written anything quite this, erm, shall we say intimate before. Hah! This oughta be great. Well anywhoodles, I do hope that what I've done here does justice and still fits into the overall mood/theme of the piece, as I am aiming for a quality read above all else. The chapter after this one will of course go back into the more serious issues, but hey, let's let our characters have some fun, amirite? Finally, I've used lyrics from the song "Brutal Love" by Green Day for the title of this chapter. I had thought of using the title itself, but it seemed misleadingly kinky. At any rate, I once again suggest y'all head on over to YouTube and check out the song, it - in my opinion - is one of Green Day's best songs of their newer works, and to me fits in well with the feeling of the chapter. I will have updates soon, but bear in mind that I will be travelling for the next few days, so while I will definitely post, it will likely be every other day rather than every day. After a long (and interesting) conversation with my husband on the matter of this story, we agreed that leaving y'all with something a bit...shall we say, tantalizing might be a fun way to leave for the short break. Gotta love husband humor. Well, I'll let y'all get on with it. Enjoy!_

Chapter 6 – Dance Forever Under the Lights

Christine

In simply telling me his name – something so common as to be almost laughable for me to be so relieved to hear for the first time – he had given me more than words could ever properly describe. He had given me a part of himself otherwise entirely hidden from the world, another piece of the puzzle that brought him closer to being human – a trait that he had for so long quite steadfastly tried to separate himself from simply for his own protection. For no one else had he done this; to let me in, to be a part of what made him whole, filled me with such awe that I could scarcely contain my love for him in the moments that followed his admission. He had given a part of himself to me to prove that, somehow, he was still there despite all we had been through, all he tried to deny us. In turn, I wanted to give a part of myself to him. Slowly we were becoming whole, something that we both desperately needed yet until that point were lost as to how to attain.

The gaze of understanding that passed between us was all we needed to continue on in the pursuit of our desires. We lost ourselves in the moment; there would be a need to speak soon enough, but the words could wait. We could remain silently together and let our bodies, our swift and deliberate actions say in volumes what we needed to for a time. Being in his arms, in spite of and because of all that had transpired that evening felt utterly right; it was a long time coming, that closeness, that feeling of wholeness that neither of us could have gotten from anyone else. No matter what, it was our destiny to come together. But I wouldn't let myself think on it long – it was time for us to give ourselves to our passion and love, whatever caused it or came of it would simply have to wait. The fact that he was allowing such an intimate and somewhat unexpected degree of contact between us, that he was giving himself to me in the moment instead of pausing to question whether or not he could let himself feel any modicum of joy told me that it was safe to continue my quest to know him.

He continued to kiss me, softly yet deeply, holding me closely as if breaking the contact whatsoever might shatter us entirely. Before I could completely comprehend what was happening, his tenderness once again gave way to a raw, animal passion; he pushed me against the wall near the fireplace, pinning me between the wooden surface and his tall, solid body. I smiled against his lips, and he seemed to take that gesture as a cue to allow his hands to wander. I curled my fingers into his hair, perhaps more forcefully than was necessarily polite, relishing in the feeling of his hands moving slowly down my sides, up my back, and coming to rest softly on my bosom. Before long he moved his hands to my waist and looked at me lovingly – I was thrilled to witness the light behind his eyes; he seemed to be allowing himself as much pleasure as I had hoped. I leaned in close and kissed his neck, feeling his pulse quicken under my touch and hearing his breath match the pace of my own. I reveled in that feeling, knowing that such a brief moment of contact could make his heart beat so.

Although he was still breathing very quickly, he broke our contact and held my face gently in his hands, gently stroking my cheeks with his thumbs and whispered, "I love you."

I smiled at him, hardly able to contain my dancing heart. He had said it so many times in the course of that night alone, yet each time he uttered the words I felt a sense of joy that I could hardly contain. I felt a small fluttering below my stomach, and with that I knew I couldn't stand to wait any longer.

Taking his hands in mine, I led him back to the fireplace; the glowing and flickering of the flames danced marvelously in his eyes, accentuating the passion that remained in them. It was not a look of lust, but the intensity of that gaze told me that he was just as eager as I was to move forward, an unspoken invitation to allow ourselves to remain lost in love. We stood before one of the chairs once more, and I rather unceremoniously and flirtatiously pushed him down into it. He caught on to my intentions rather quickly, and raised his eyebrows as if daring me to come close to him again, but still he seemed somewhat caught off guard when I positioned myself in his lap, straddling him and putting my arms around his shoulders. His attempt at a shocked, "What?" was cut off by my lips on his own.

He made a low noise in the back of his throat as he put his hands on my hips to steady me. I felt him smile briefly as I ran my hands up and down his chest, growing braver by the second and allowing myself to go just beneath the fabric of his shirt. When he didn't protest to that I let my touch venture lower still, reaching below his waist and settling between his legs. His breath caught when I let my hand rest there, giving a small, teasing squeeze.

He broke the contact of our lips and looked at me intently with wide, disbelieving eyes. For a brief moment I feared that he would turn from me then, try to take on an aloof air once again in an attempt to protect our hearts. However, he simply continued to look at me, furrowing his brow, holding onto me as tightly as before, all the while trying to collect his breath and his thoughts.

"Are you sure you want this? What will it mean in the morning – "

"None of that matters now," I whispered, "Don't think on it. Give yourself to me and I'll do so in return _. That_ is what I want, no fear, no regret. I want nothing of the world outside of this night."

I had barely finished speaking when he pulled me close to him again, capturing my lips in one swift, deliberate motion. We remained this way a while longer – our hands exploring and our tongues dancing fervently – before he let out a moan and forced us apart. The look in his eyes told me before I allowed myself to needlessly worry that he did not intend to let the night end there. Breathing heavily, nearly gasping in ecstasy, he put his hands on my shoulders and gripped tightly.

Shaking his head briefly, he said, "Come. Come with me."

We left the warmth of the fire almost immediately; holding out his hand to me, he held his head high with an air of confidence and determination that left me feeling weak at the knees. His eyes flashed as he stared into mine – I was reminded of the night he led me through those endless tunnels to his house by the lake, the night I fell in love with him. I held his hand tightly as he led me down the short, narrow hallway to the house's only bedroom.

At the threshold he paused and pulled me close to him, kissing me tenderly and confirming once more that what we were about to do was what I absolutely wanted. He knew what he wanted and would go after it with everything he had, but he would not take what was not his. In confirming that I was giving myself to him because of my love for him and nothing more, he could let himself proceed unhindered. It was all we needed to be able to enter that bedroom without any lingering doubts – no matter what would come of our decision, it was ours to make, and we were finally ready to take that leap of faith together.

We had only a few candles to light our way, the air around us chilled as the fireplace in the other room could not reach us, the one in the bedroom dark and empty. The snowstorm outside continued to rage on around us, turning the outside world into something frenzied and fearsome. The howling wind rattled the window threateningly, as if warning us that at any moment the world might end in one sweeping motion. Yet none of this mattered to us then; as we made our way to the bed the world around us seemed cold and inconsequential. The heat of our bodies and the nearly tangible anticipation were the only things of great urgency, pieces at center stage of the events that were about to unfold. We were the players then, the only two people in the world as the spotlight pulsed with our frantic hearts.

He wasted no time in putting me on the bed, kissing me in quick succession as he positioned himself over me. He only wore suspenders over a thin dress shirt, yet I found myself fumbling with the garments between kisses. He shouldered his way out of the suspenders, sending us both into a short fit of laughter when our hands got tangled in the fabric. When I finally made my way to and mastered the buttons of his shirt, he hovered over me breathlessly as I let the material fall open and took in the exposed parts of his body. He was pale, and so very thin, yet quite muscular; it was not unpleasant to behold, and I felt any shyness I might have had flutter away altogether. He was, for all he tried to deny himself, a man, and he was the man I wanted. I ran my fingers slowly along his flesh, feeling his scars mingling with the softness of his skin, his warmth and tension. I looked up again at his face, the set of his jaw both tense and eager. I reached up to remove his mask, but he flinched away as if I had shocked him.

"Don't," he plead.

"Please, Erik. I thought we had agreed to do away with all pretense. I want to see you, and now more than ever is not the time to try and hide from me."

He nodded and removed the mask himself, casting it aside with a look of mingled regret and determination. His deformity was no less severe than I remembered it, but to behold it once again did not leave me with any feelings of fear or disgust, as I knew he had dreaded even then. On the contrary, it was becoming something that I no longer noticed, no longer felt my eyes drawn to with fixed curiosity or revulsion. As ashamed as I am to say that such feelings were once the case, no longer could I come to that conclusion. Rather, what I saw before me was simply another part of Erik, something that he was cursed with without his choosing that left him scarred, abused, and emotionally mangled despite his desire to soar above such hatred.

I looked at him sadly then, but would not let a look of absolute pity betray my true feelings; he needed to see my love for him, to know that after all we had been through, after all we had said and seen, that I was no longer naïve and cold toward his plight – he had nothing less from me than adoration and respect, albeit born from a long battle. His face and all the ramifications of its appearance shaped his entire life, but for better or worse I was a part of that life, and I wouldn't let us come so far just to be held back by circumstances beyond our control. I stroked both sides of his face gently, letting one of my hands run through his hair, and without another word he leaned down and kissed me once again.

It didn't take long for us to lose ourselves in the moment once again – before long our kisses were deep and steady, our hands moving rhythmically to a music only we could hear, a pulsing led entirely by instincts and sheer passion. Wordlessly, we made short work of what little clothing we had left. We found ourselves frozen then, the moment screaming around us that this was it, if we chose to continue on then we would come together – we would be united and whole, physically bonded and emotionally woven together from that point on, no matter where our paths led us. I could feel the pressure of his hips against mine, our bodies pressed against one another and heated as if we were on fire. He looked at me only briefly before I kissed him again and moved my legs to be on either side of his, urging him to make that final motion.

"I want you," he whispered softly against my neck.

"Take me."

When he finally did enter me, I gasped; there was pain, oh I knew there would be, but beyond that was a feeling deep within my heart of pure pleasure, of pride and longing. He moved within me, slowly at first, but soon gave way to a pulsing rhythm that drove me writhing into the bed beneath me. He held me close as I grasped his shoulders and wrapped my arms around his neck; I felt my breath catching as he continued on. I was sure that my mind and body would simply come apart with each raptured breath, all the world around me was in a haze and I knew only that he was with me, inside me, touching my skin and my soul without any hesitation. He whispered sweet nothings to me, I called his name softly and begged him to keep moving, to never let me go. He would stop briefly at times to just kiss me; I knew he would do all he could to make the connection, that singular feeling of awe last as long as possible.

The candles were burning down, yet we could have been plunged into utter and endless darkness and I still would have begged for more time feeling him move in me. I clutched at his back and grasped the railings of the bedstead as I suppressed the urge to scream. He kissed me roughly as we progressed further into our lovemaking. I arched my back as he drove into me harder, each thrust more frenzied and yearning than the last. He held onto me as tightly as ever, kissing me and trailing his lips down my neck, over my breasts and back to my mouth.

"Don't forget this feeling," he said against my skin in a deep, husky voice.

Before long, when I felt that my mind could no longer take any more of our expressed desires, he closed his eyes and held onto me so tightly that I was dimly aware of pain; climaxing then, he gasped and kissed me once more as he slowly released himself in a pulsing that left me tingling deeply within myself.

When it was done, the environment was calm all around us as we caught our breath and looked at each other. I couldn't help letting a small laugh escape me at his devilish grin. We were different people, then; the same bodies and souls, yet somehow slightly changed, as if taking each other's virtue meant taking a piece of one another – a promise that we would be together forever in some small way for having shared such a singular, importantly intimate milestone.

When he shifted himself to move away from me, I felt a small moment of panic. I knew that he was simply moving to lie next to me, yet a dread deep in my mind made me fear that he would soon feel restless fear and need to take flight, attempting to appease once again his sense of protectiveness over me. Only then did I begin to acknowledge again that at some point soon, we would need to talk about what had just happened between us and what it meant for the big picture, the reality that we inevitably had to face. But I didn't want that moment to come too quickly; I wanted only to enjoy the feeling of his body against mine for as long as I still could, and I feared that at any moment he would no longer be able to resist the urge to flee.

Frantically I clutched at his arms, crying, "Please don't leave me yet."

He shushed me gently and said seriously, "I'm not leaving you, darling. I promise, I'm staying here with you tonight. It is as you said, we cannot think on this now. Be calm."

He settled beside me with his arms around me. We were wrapped tightly together, secure under blankets and the heat of our bodies to ensure that the chilled air of the now-dark room would not serve to bother us in the night ahead. I rested my head against his chest, breathing him in and absentmindedly wondering at my good fortune for having been able to be so close to him. I wanted more, but pushed all thoughts from my mind before I could lead myself into anymore worries that would sully my feeling of contentment. I wanted to share that with him, to send thoughts to his heart that would bring him peace in the night, for I knew his mind would soon come back to bother him with troubled thoughts as well; I felt protective of him, then. He still needed saving from himself, I was sure, and I wanted to be the one glimmer of light in his otherwise dark world. That night, the least I could do in that spirit was to hold him close and be held by him – in doing so we could wordlessly convey all we needed to in the darkness. I sighed and kissed his chest.

"You're beautiful," he whispered into my hair.

"So are you," I said dreamily.

The last thing I was aware of was him kissing me on my forehead and stroking my bare arms lovingly. I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep knowing that the man I loved was with me – it was all I needed then.


	7. The King of All That's Said and Done

**Author's Note:** _Hello again finally! I'm sorry for the bit of delay; I hope I still have some readers left after all this time. Once again I appreciate everyone reading and following, and I'm hoping the story so far is good for everyone. This is another chapter that I was able to cut in half, so the next chapter will hopefully be up very shortly following this one - I simply need to do some cleaning up and editing for the sake of the story's flow. I'm traveling a bit right now among some work and school prep, but so far I've been able to write steadily even without my internet access. Also, I'm very excited to have gotten in touch with my old mentor and some of my former professors about a piece I'm hoping to publish, and that project I will say now will be taking up some more of my life than other works, but rest assured that I will always make time for this story. What can I say, writing is my love. Before I wrap this up, I once again recommend going to YouTube and finding the song "Walking Disaster" by Sum 41, lyrics from which were inspiration for the title of this chapter, as well as yet another song that reminds me so much of Erik when I hear it. Well, you'll see why. Anywhoodles, there should be more up soon, in the meantime let me know how it's coming and enjoy!_

Chapter 7 – The King of All That's Said and Done

Erik

I don't sleep, at least certainly not as long or as often as could be considered healthy. What little rest I can attain comes in short bursts if I'm particularly fortunate – a whole uninterrupted night if God happens to smile pity upon me. But rarely does that happen, and I am often at the mercy of my thoughts until I finally exhaust myself into a stupor that leads eventually to restless sleep plagued with nightmares. I'd just as soon as not experience it at all. I used to think myself lucky for this trait, something else to set me apart from humanity and make me somehow superior; I could wander the night freely, cloaked in darkness and completely invulnerable. As time goes by, however, I find the whole affair rather tedious. It's worse without my music. When I composed, I could lose myself in the notes, forget everything around me and within me for as long as I desired. Now that I'm trapped here in the dark wilderness indefinitely, I have nothing but my thoughts threatening to consume me ever further, promising to ruin what little of me there is left.

Knowing sleep would not come to me that night any easier than it would any other occasion, I tried to content myself with the fact that, if I _had_ to stay awake, at least I was doing so with my arms around Christine as she slept. It was hard for me to believe the circumstances in which we found ourselves; several hours had passed since she first forced her way into my residence, and the emotionally charged evening that we lived through seemed like ages ago, oddly disconnected as if they were not even part of the same lifetime, let alone the same night. I felt as though I were experiencing scenes acted out in front of me, the lives of other people on display and barely understood themselves rather than living through all of it myself. I didn't necessarily mind the disoriented feeling – the reason for it certainly wasn't a negative occurrence. I would have been content to stay where I was all night even if I never actually fell asleep if it meant delaying the inevitable nagging thoughts, but before long the cold air became far too uncomfortable and I had no choice but to get up and build a fire for us.

It didn't take me long to get the fireplace glowing powerfully and steadily; the room warmed up quickly enough that I did not feel that I needed to worry about getting back to Christine hastily. She was deeply asleep and I was loath to accidentally wake her unnecessarily – I was too restless by then to be able to lie still and quietly beside her as I had before. Instead I decided to sit before the fire on my own a while, my arms wrapped around my legs like a child. Doing so let me feel oddly normal for a few fleeting moments, wondering if this is what ordinary men do after spending the night with someone they loved. It was strange to even briefly consider counting myself among them; I felt out of place in my own house just having my shirt off then.

Living among the gypsies, I learned very quickly the subtle ways of protecting myself; although they were a free and unbashful people, I preferred to remain covered at all times, knowing each layer of fabric covering me meant another layer a whip or blade could not penetrate as deeply. The faster I healed, the more easily I could protect myself and the safer I remained until I ultimately found a means to escape. That habit of needing to remain covered and protected carried on into my adulthood – I never had a reason to lounge about in any capacity, never wanted to. To sit before the fire as I was left me feeling uncomfortably exposed, but I tried to put it out of mind. I wanted to enjoy the sensation of normalcy while I could. It was a short-lived phenomenon.

I looked back at Christine's sleeping form and realized, not for the first time that night, that I was smiling at her – at the very thought of her and what we had shared. But that happy, blissful sensation didn't last long. The second I remembered our situation, my muscles once again became tense and a deep, miserable frown replaced any shadow of peace I dared to allow myself to feel. I couldn't bear the fact that the seconds ticked closer and closer to our end, that I would be the one to bring down the hammer.

It had to be this way, but I hated myself just the same. The longer I thought about it, the more my heart ached. I want so badly to be with her, to take her in my arms and never let go. I want to marry her and whisk her away on long, romantic adventures that would stay in her mind forever, times we could share that no one could take from us. I wanted to erase the darkness of the past and soothe away memories that plagued her with misery, to be her rescuer and source of strength and encouragement that brought out the best in her. I wanted to be the husband, the man that she needed and deserved. But it couldn't be any of those things to her, couldn't give her nearly as much as I desired – no matter how I tried to reason and justify, I came back to the same conclusion. She was better off without me, safer. I was better off without the fear that all would come crashing down around us, whether by my own hand or hers, by some far off and as yet unknown enemies. We lived the bleak lives of uncertainty and desperation; I could never truly guarantee her anything.

Our relationship, whatever it may be called presently, cannot continue on. It kills me; I heard her sigh in her sleep and I thought to myself how wonderful it would be to be surrounded by that sound every night, knowing it is mine and mine alone. Her very presence in my life feels like a great honor, a miracle that I never expected or deserved. But in being so undeserving, I have to be realistic. I looked back into the fire, remembering every detail of her, every word and unspoken plea for more chances, for risks to be taken. I love her so much, but it will never be enough. My love, my frenzied emotions and uncontrollable rage, my past evils and future potential failures, my pride, arrogance, and sense of power, all these things push me both to great heights and terrible falls; I know it, I've known it for years. To put her through any more pain as a result of my horrendous and erratic extremes would be plainly disgraceful. My reasoning and explanations to her from earlier that evening came back to me in full force; they continued to ring true in my mind, furthering my conviction and resolve.

My mood darkened with the knowledge that morning would come and my words would effectively take away what little hope for us remained in her heart. A feeling of great hopelessness and apprehension washed over me like a black tide; I felt drowned once again by my past, my actions, and my monstrous existence. But I did nothing to stave off the bitter pull toward reality – I didn't bother to attempt to find solace at the bottom of a brandy bottle, didn't fly into a rage to relieve the boiling emotions behind my heart. I took the sinking feeling as a punishment, the consequence of the actions I set in motion long ago.

Once again I had a taste of happiness that was never meant to last; I could look back on those moments of passion and admissions of true love fondly, hope that Christine might do the same in time, but we simply could never allow ourselves to walk further down that path in search of bliss and normalcy with each other. It would hurt her – it might kill me – but for the time I must take the knowledge in stride. I deserve the misery, and she deserves the freedom. I did nothing to comfort myself.

Staring into the fire allowed me to focus on all of this. I let myself appear numb, cold, and indifferent. Inside I was screaming, flayed alive, but it changed nothing.

I want nothing more than to be by her side, but I know I must send her away one final time.

 **Author's Note:** _I know, I know, Erik is doing the thing again. I'm sorry. Just trust me, darlings. ;)_


	8. The Sharpest Thorn on Your Vine

**Author's Note:** _Oh. My. God. I am so sorry about the long delay in updates. I had done some traveling, which was all well and good and y'all were prepared for; I was able to update at least a couple of times so no big deal there. Then there were some issues in the family that kept me away from home; no one was hurt or ill or anything like that, I'm happy to say, but the event was time-consuming and as I don't have this particular story on Dropbox, I couldn't have posted from where I was even if I did have the time to do so. Well, I get home from that mess and my semester starts - fifteen units, because I'm a fucking idiot. Yet the first week was mellow-ish so I'm like hell yeah, I'm going to post all kinds of updates. But then unfortunately my twelve-year-old cat, Patrick, passed away, and anyone that has fur-babies knows that it was an extremely upsetting experience. I'm glad to say he didn't suffer in the end, but he was a long-time little companion and I loved him dearly. So I took some time to just solely cope with that among everything else going on in daily life. I'm finally ready to post and guess what? Site maintenance! Hah! I can't win. Well anywhoodles, now that everything seems to have mellowed once again (knock on wood) I will have lots of nice updates for y'all. I'm hoping the pacing of this chapter and the overall story is still alright; I had trouble deciding whether or not to keep this chapter as is or to add to it for other purposes but ultimately decided against doing so for various reasons, so here's hoping my instincts worked out here. This and the following two chapters I had to cut the crap out of because they were quite long (well, separate them, rather) so they will be posted in quick succession, say one or two days to let everything settle. That said, for this chapter I once again encourage y'all to check out the song "Fix You" by The Offspring, from which I got the chapter title. It's one of my favorites of the band in general, and when applied to this story I saw it almost as if Christine and Erik were speaking to each other, so it was kind of fun to bear that in mind while writing this. Once again I thank you all for your support and reviews, and if there's any thoughts or criticisms for this chapter please don't hesitate to let me know so that I can make this story the best it can be. Enjoy!_

Chapter 8 – The Sharpest Thorn on Your Vine

Erik

Temporally, dawn had arrived – or so the hands of the pocket watch on the bedside table said. The sun, however, could not fully penetrate the dark, low clouds that remained from the previous stormy night. Sunlight streaming through the window would be of no concern to the woman slumbering beside me. I myself had made a half-hearted attempt to sleep at length, if only to be beside Christine a little while longer, but my efforts only led to a wakeful doze that made me more restless and nervous than before. I certainly wasn't surprised, but I was frustrated. Selfishly, I wanted as much contact with her as I could get before our final separation that I was resolved to set in motion. When a seemingly peaceful rest with her in my arms as I had always desired wouldn't come, I wanted to cry out in anger, but stifled the notion. I knew I would not be given more than I deserved, and so once again not wanting to wake her before it was necessary, I left the bed as quietly as possible.

I paced about the house for a time, my idle hands tense and fidgeting, although there was not much to do at all. Lacking nearly all of my possessions and most of my creative outlets, I was left with few options for what one might loosely consider entertainment. If anything I longed for a simple distraction until Christine awoke, but I had none. Before long I found myself at the window of our bedroom, reflecting and generally brooding like a petulant child. The sun never did come out from behind the clouds, but the light changed over the landscape; as the sun rose higher and grew stronger, morning officially settled itself on the world. The late-winter weather left the world encased in an eerie gray-white glow. I crossed my arms and leaned against the window frame, finally calmed at the idea that I could stay that way awhile and be relatively content in doing so.

I wasn't there long when I heard Christine stir about in the bed with the first motions of waking up, and I nearly laughed – all that effort to settle myself and she wakes almost immediately upon my doing so. I was about to go to her when she sat bolt upright; I paused, quite startled myself.

"Erik?" she called out with dread in her voice, and I instantly felt a pang of guilt; she hadn't expected me to be there when she awoke, she had made that perfectly clear when she clutched at me the night before, fearing that I planned to leave her then and there. In being perfectly honest with myself, she wasn't far off the mark – had it not been for the storm and the fact that I had absolutely nowhere else to go, I probably would have snuck away from her in a bout of shame, hoping that doing so would be yet another wrongdoing against her for which she could one day forgive me. Truly a cowardly thing of course, to run away, hardly becoming of any man, but I scarcely know myself anymore as it is to assume I am not capable of such loathsome abandonment; I cannot be surprised to have sunken _that_ low. Her wavering and fearful voice calling out to me was a terrible reminder of that.

"I'm here," I called out softly from my place by the window, adding sadly, "I'm still here, Christine."

"Have you slept at all?" she asked with great relief at my response.

I didn't reply to her directly, but rather beckoned her toward me, "Come here," I nodded to the window, "Come see what our storm has done."

She smiled and stood, wrapping a blanket around her still-bare skin. It took my breath away to see her in that state, to know the reason for it. As she neared me I reached for her to bridge the rest of the space between us, feeling a sudden urge to be as close to her as possible again. When our hands met I looked at hers in mine, so small – I saw a flickering of a memory in my mind's eye, the night we shared only hours before, her hands on my skin; mine curled in her hair, grasping her hips, her arms. Even in wanting to escape later I had never wanted to let her go. My heart ached.

I drew myself from my reverie and pulled her into an embrace, kissing her before either of us could say more.

"Look out there," I said softly when we parted, and when she saw the world beyond the frosted pane of glass she gasped.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, "I'm afraid I've been in the city too long, I've forgotten what winter does in wild country fields like this. No garden walls or buildings, oh I just love it."

I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her as I sighed, "I had a feeling you'd enjoy seeing this first thing."

She nodded, "Winter is fast becoming my most-loved season. Mornings like this, when everything is fresh and bright and quiet, it's a wonderful sight."

"I recall you being a summertime kind of girl. What changed?"

She turned and wrapped her arms around my shoulders before I could react and said pointedly, "I suppose it just made sense to me, the symbol of it. Everything is white, pure, like a new canvas. It makes me think that anything could go there, that it means everyone can have a fresh start."

I kissed her forehead but pulled away gently, knowing her words were meant to draw me into a conversation I could not have just then, to extend to her an answer that I was not willing to give, "You'll get cold if you stay here too long. Come to the fireplace."

She sighed but didn't object, allowing me to lead her to stand before the flames without mentioning my lack of directness with her. The bedroom was sparsely furnished, not allowing us the same type of comfort to sit before the fire in chairs as in the living room just beyond, but neither of us had the desire to leave – the space we occupied was peaceful, newly meaningful and sentimentally significant, and we both seemed to need that air about us without having to voice the desire. Still wrapped in her blanket, Christine lounged comfortably before the hearth, and I followed suit. It was a content, domestic gesture; its normalcy mocked me.

"Do you think the sun will come out soon? I will have to go back to Madame Giry today, I know she's sick with worry by now." she said at length.

"I cannot tell. But to be honest, when it does the snow will be absolutely blinding. Better to have the clouds at this point, you'll have a safer journey."

"I hate to have to leave, though," she said wistfully, "Not after – "

"– I know."

"You worried about what it would mean in the morning."

"I did."

"Well the morning has come."

I tensed and sighed, "I'm aware."

"It meant a lot to me, Erik."

I softened my expression, "I know. I cannot tell you what it meant to me to be that close to you. And," I added in the hopes of not sounding entirely chauvinistic, "our conversations were most enjoyable, when we didn't quarrel."

She reached out and took my hand, "A lot happened between us in a short time. I think there's still a lot left to be discussed."

I shook my head, knowing with a heavy heart that the conversation I so dreaded was at hand; I didn't want to move forward, would have been quite content to stay put before the dancing flames and pretending that all would stay well between us. If I could have molded time to my own whims I would have made that moment last forever, her hand in mine, our eyes meeting and seeing love among the turmoil. But in simply wishing I knew I was drawing it out far too long, delaying the inevitable and inviting only more pain to be had later.

"I haven't changed my mind, Christine," I said evenly, "Despite everything, we have to end this today, we cannot hope for more."

She seemed quite taken aback by my bluntness, and the flash of anger and hurt in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Erik, please, don't be so unreasonable. Just talk with me a while longer. We don't have to set anything in stone, but there's so much more left we could consider. Maybe – "

"Maybe _nothing_. We are not having this discussion again."

"Well I had hoped to, all things considered.

"I understand that. I've been up all night thinking about it, _believe me_ , and still I come to the same conclusion."

She huffed and stood quickly, and I followed suit with equal swiftness.

"I can't believe you're _still_ insisting upon this," she said sadly.

"Christine, I'm sorry, but – "

"– I hate your stubbornness. All I want is to make sense of all of this."

"You want to stay with me, to entertain the idea that we could build a life together."

"Is that so wrong?"

"It is unwise."

"No, it is unfair, absolutely cruel to ourselves to deny the chance to pursue something more meaningful."

"I thought you came here for answers, that you could be content at getting them and be able to leave here with understanding alone. You said that when you got here. Now you seek more," I shook my head, knowing I was only trying her temper and harassing my own, "I don't know how many times I should have to tell you that I don't know what else to say to you."

"I know what I said, but you cannot truly believe that everything is not different between us now."

"I never said that. But still I have not changed my mind."

She glared at me but didn't speak, and I unconsciously found myself crossing my arms as if in protection; I felt terribly small then, quite ashamed, but I knew I couldn't say anything more than I had. I couldn't risk misspeaking and raising false hopes for her – doing so would only hurt her more, and I had done enough damage. That morning – our entire relationship until that point really – was a tribute to and a culmination of how much my foolishness, anger, and rash actions could devour any promise of happiness we might hope to share. I stood before her feeling utterly broken and unsure of everything, more so than ever before; I hadn't thought it possible. Oh how far I had fallen indeed.

"I don't ask much of you, Erik. I do not require an engagement ring or promises of grandiose future plans for us two. All I ask is that you don't turn away from me now."

"You think you don't ask much, my love, but you have no idea. There is nothing I don't want to give you, but I cannot. I will not risk any more, will not be selfish any longer, when all I can give you is uncertainty."

"You think you are only being selfish? You _still_ cannot see how badly I share your longing?"

I could only shrug noncommittally in response.

She sighed heavily and made her way determinedly toward the bed, picking up her discarded articles of clothing and muttering, "Perhaps I shall just have to leave now, then. It's quite obvious I'm not wanted here. I shouldn't have presumed that my company was desired in the first place, I suppose," she added with a tone of voice that stung me.

"Stop that, you know it's far more complicated than that. And I'm not sending you away _now_ , there's no need to rush out in a haste because you're angry."

She rolled her eyes at me, and I barely had time to balk at her uncharacteristic attitude before I was quite taken aback as she let the blanket fall to the floor. Even further from her ordinarily chaste behavior, her blatant state of undress seemed not to phase her whatsoever; I, on the other hand, suddenly felt very out of place, and turned my head quickly from her with a feeling that staring would have been simply rude and ungentlemanly in any circumstance.

"Oh, you look away from me now, yet you had no qualms at devouring the sight of me last night, did you?"

I gave a sardonic smile, "Obviously not."

"Well, isn't this just lovely! You got what you wanted from me, just used me up and now that you're done you toss me out. You seem to be quite good at this, you have such a way about you. It's most charming," she added with narrowed eyes, "Are you sure I'm the only one you've seduced and bedded? I hope you're quite pleased with yourself."

I knew she meant to be more mocking than serious, but I bristled at her accusation, "Oh yes, I'm just _dying_ of happiness at this conquest, my dear. You've been my favorite, of all the women lusting after me and just clamoring for me to bring them back to this _most luxurious_ place of mine. Here, would you like to add your notch to my bedstead yourself, since you think that's all you are to me now?"

"Alright. Don't be vulgar."

"Then don't _you_ even dream that my intentions with you have been less than respectful. Do not make light of this with venomous mockery. You know I love you, I _made love_ to you. I'm not tossing you out, as you say, because you're used up. Not at all. Don't you dare leave here thinking that."

She looked at me briefly then shifted her eyes sadly to the floor, "Don't be cross. Forgive my words. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm very confused, very hurt right now."

"Forgive me as well. This isn't easy for me either."

Now dressed, she smoothed her skirts and seemed to be making a mighty effort to compose herself; I stood very still, hoping to regain my composure and resolve as well and attempting to keep my shaking hands hidden from her. I could feel our time together winding down, slipping away as if the wind of the previous night's storm had come back for us, ghostly and silent, completely unseen yet violently shattering the seconds around us. I felt as if I were hollow, adrift in space and being tossed about painfully, yet I hadn't moved from my spot. I wasn't ready for it to end, knew I never would be, and that knowledge only served to further intensify my pain. I looked intently at her before me, my heart pounding like a mourning bell, and I felt myself breaking as she walked slowly back to me.

"There's nothing I can say to change your mind, is there?" she asked softly with considering eyes, measuring me.

I shook my head again, "There is not."

Something flashed in her expression, so brief and flitting that I could not make out exactly what had happened in her mind, but she only nodded in response. She never took her gaze from mine, but for a moment she appeared lost in her own thoughts. As I struggled to read her emotions once more she took my hands in hers and, although new tears threatened to fall, she held her head high with an air of determination – a trait so new in her that I was still somewhat surprised by its presence.

"Then I shall do as you request and let it be," she whispered.

"I'm sorry that it has to end this way, Christine."

She looked down and a tear escaped her eyes, but she quickly brushed it away before I could make the gesture to do so. I wanted so badly to show her compassion, to extend any last gestures of tenderness while I was still able, but she wordlessly pled with me not to bother – it would be too painful, I knew, yet another harsh reminder of our circumstances. I said nothing and relented. She turned away from me and made her way to the living room, gathering her belongings. I considered reminding her that she needn't rush off, but it seemed a futile effort. Our bonds were severed, it was clear, and it was time to let that truth settle over us.

We didn't speak as I helped her collect and prepare her horse for departure. Mercifully, the morning air was uncomfortably brisk and allowed me to sharpen my focus, something I desperately needed but was sure I could not have attained on my own. The silence between us was absolutely deafening and I wasn't sure how much more of it I could take before either losing my temper or folding completely and begging her to stay after all. My thoughts and emotions were falling back into ominous patterns of disjointed racing; I felt very close to panicking and I was loath to have her last sight of me being that of complete and pathetic chaos. And so the ghastly weather had proven yet again to hold small blessings.

Only when she had secured herself upon her mount did I feel able to speak, "Please be careful on your return to the city, Christine. I cannot stand the idea of you getting hurt."

"I could say the same to you, Erik."

I looked away quickly as her words hit me sharply – I had certainly given her little reason to trust my sense of self-preservation, had admitted to her that my resolve to live was waning, and I hated that my melodrama caused her still more pain and fear. I turned my attention back to her just in time to see her turning the horse away from my property, and I felt utterly crushed, defeated beyond repair.

"Is this what the last goodbye feels like?" I whispered to myself.

"Only if you _let_ it be the last goodbye," she answered regardless.

I stood outside, coatless and shaking violently as I had the night before, scarcely caring about being so very exposed out in the open, and watched her fade into the horizon and out of my life.

 **Author's Note:** D'aww, look at these little assholes fighting like a married couple. ^_^ And now we play the waiting game.


	9. What We Must Do

**Author's Note:** _Hello, all! I'll try to keep this short and sweet. First of all, I'm having trouble seeing my traffic graphs, and I've gotten few reviews for the last chapter, so I'm not sure who all has hung in there with me, but for those that have, I thank you very much and hope that everything is to your satisfaction. I want to know if this is still generating interest simply because without feedback/views I'm unsure of how/if to move forward. So hopefully that will be clarified soon! Also a quick note, the update schedule that I think I will implement, simply for my own schedule and to let the story settle in with y'all, will be every other day. Every day had worked for a little minute but I don't want to churn out chapters anymore without knowing if they are coming out well for the readers, especially since it's been a while since I've posted a phanphic. So that in mind, I hope the change will work for y'all. It's better than my many recent delays. ;) Now, without giving too much away, I will say for those that were concerned that, no, there will be none of this 10-12 year waiting bullshit - ALW and Fredrick Forsythe are fucking sadists, as far as I'm concerned. I refuse to be that cruel to fictional characters (my cruelties lie in other plot lines. *gasp* I've said too much). There will be much reflecting because my jackass little characters are just fools that way, but things shall progress here very nicely and shortly. Finally, the chapter title, of course, comes from "Once Upon Another Time" from LND; even though my story is very much not based on the sequel (because I came up with the basic idea for it almost ten years ago), there are many elements to the music that I enjoy and that fit in nicely. Welp, I won't ramble on any longer. Enjoy!_

Chapter 9 – What We Must Do

Christine

Without the sun to warm the world in its morning light, the frigid air stung my face as I pushed my mare to a full gallop, willing her to take us away as quickly as possible. The snow was deep, a testament to the force of the storm that drove me back to Erik's hideaway after he had so adamantly turned me out; it had only been the night before, yet it seemed lifetimes away from my consciousness. With everything that had transpired between us, I felt extremely shaken, and was quite hurt and admittedly somewhat angry despite the fact that I had made it appear that I accepted his request to leave and to stay away for good. I initially wanted nothing more than to continue to rage at him for his foolish and shortsighted stubbornness, but I knew that doing so would do nothing but distance us ever further; I couldn't stand that prospect, and so I simply had to turn from him one more time.

I waited until I was very much out of his line of sight before I gave myself to my sobbing anguish. I would not allow myself to question or regret my decision, and I knew I had to maintain my composure for as long as possible – for Erik's sake and my own. But still, to have to pull myself away from him, to put everything back into his hands and hope that he would find his way back to me and to himself, was an undertaking for which I was not entirely as prepared as I thought. I wasn't sure I could appear as strong as I needed to. As the space between us widened, my dread increased that my instincts had only served to fail me.

A part of me had known from the beginning of our abrupt reunion that I could not convince him by myself that our staying together would be the best course of action. Indeed, it was quite clear at the outset that he grappled with the decision himself. But at his continued resistance it became as clear as crystal that my words – no matter how pleading, reasonable, or petulant I acted – could not penetrate either his stubbornness and hurt, nor his innate sense of protectiveness over me. Nothing I could do on my own would heal the scars he bore from a lifetime of misery and rejection. I said what needed to be heard, made my steps in the strange dance that had defined our lives together so far, and was entirely sincere in my efforts. Now it was his turn to allow himself a moment of peace from his demons to be able to listen and completely realize what has been there all along. Our love would have been obvious to anyone else, but to a man raised in hate and fear, something so pure and simple would be hard-pressed to be found easily.

I had to accept that while his love for me was enormous, his fear was that much greater, and he was the only one that could fight his way out of such darkness. The only way he could do that was to find the strength himself, alone again in his world; I hated to do that to him, hated to put him back into a position of restless agony, but seeing the warring emotions in his eyes told me that I would prove not only to distract him, but to raise his protective instincts. To have me near meant that he could only think of what he wanted to save, misguided as he was, and he would only allow himself to see that much. His pain was too loud for his mind when I was near, when he wouldn't allow himself the same moments of bliss as we had shared when we intentionally shut out all else. I had to remove myself from the situation if only for the fact that nothing would be achieved in my efforts to convince him all alone.

I knew all of that in my heart, but still it hurt to leave that house. And moreover, I worried about him beyond the consequences of what happened between us; I felt a deep dread in my heart at what his pain might lead him to do. Anything good we might have shared would not erase the darkness that consumed him and promised to turn him back to vices that would threaten his very wellbeing. I knew he had the potential to hurt himself, that his quick temper and susceptibility to black moods could lead to irreversible destruction of himself, and that thought troubled me as much as the fear that he might not return to me. But I had to brush that fear aside, had to trust that we might be granted some reprieve in our suffering. If I didn't, I knew my resolve would escape me, and doing so would only set us back further. Erik is a complicated man, but over time I've learned to stay in step with him – now more than ever I knew I had to see this through to the end.

At length, once my tears had subsided and I felt that I could do so without adding to my misery, I slowly eased my horse to a gentle walk and looked back. I saw only the horizon, dotted with trees and wilderness and hoof prints – Erik's house was no longer near enough to be seen, not even the smoke from the chimney, and that truth both threatened new anguish and strengthened my determination. I sighed and continued forward, knowing that was the only direction I should go.

~~oOo~~

I lost track of time to a certain extent, lacking the sun's position in the sky above me to even guess at the hour, but I knew I had been on the road a very long time and that I hadn't strayed from the path that would lead me back to Madame Giry's apartment in the city. The air was as cold as ever, the sky seemed as low and ominously oppressive as it had the night before, but I was only distantly aware of such things. Thoughts of Erik proved to be both a plague and a blessing – his smiles, brief and shy, finally reaching his eyes for a time warmed my heart yet haunted me in equal measure to his shaking hands and forcedly determined pleas for me to leave his house and his life. I wanted to – and very well could – curse our shared fortune, to cry out in anger to the skies without fear of humiliation at such dramatics, but I knew it would do no good. Relief would only come with seeing him again, and I repeated to myself over and over that I would in fact have the pleasure of doing so with time.

As Paris began to appear before me, the snow became shallower on the path; already worn down by the footprints of earlier passersby and weary travelers such as myself, the snow lost its powdery quality and had been pounded into a fine sheet over the road. I decided to get off the horse and walk alongside her awhile. I had the heart of a singer, but the body of a dancer – to stay still for me was an uncomfortable thing; my body required movement over inaction in order to gain some semblance of calmness. As I walked I looked all around me, absentmindedly taking in the fact that I could hear birds alive with song in the trees, a sure sign that another storm was not in the immediate future. I thought it somewhat a pity that, even as close as I was to the city, I would not have dreadful weather as an excuse to return to Erik as I had before. _We'd only end up in bed together again, anyway,_ I thought with a wicked grin.

That was the first time that morning I allowed myself to think specifically about our union the night before. I felt neither ashamed nor embarrassed at our shared intimacy, and I knew that I certainly hadn't acted in the hopes that I might sway Erik's decision – quite to the contrary, I longed for his touch again, simply for the fact that I knew that our carnal actions would once again allow us to force all other pain and fear from our minds. I wanted to go back to those moments if only to block out the rest of the world. He was all I wanted, the only person I would ever truly love, and in bearing all that in mind as the outskirts of the city gave way to the small neighborhoods that would lead to Madame Giry's apartment, I missed him with a terrible ache that I wasn't sure I could bear for very long.

~~oOo~~

Madame Giry was, as I had expected, quite miserable with worry when I had failed to come back during the storm, and equally appalled that I had stayed overnight alone with Erik. I assured her that I had been safe the entire night, and with a simple little white lie brushed off our unchaperoned evening as nothing of great consequence. Complaining without having to feign much annoyance, I added that he acted as stubbornly as ever, but was otherwise not unpleasant toward me. Pleased that I stood before her in one piece, my virtue supposedly intact, she embraced me and ushered me back to the room I shared with Meg, insisting that I rest my body and quiet my mind.

When Meg and I were alone together and I was positive that Madame was not in earshot, I told her of the events which unfolded between Erik and I, every word and action from the start, leaving no details unmentioned. I simply could not bear to keep it all in my own heart any longer; I knew my dear friend would lend me a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on, which I suspected I would need before the end of my tale.

"You _slept_ with him?" Meg gasped when I finished speaking, setting aside more unpleasant matters for a time.

"Hush!" I cried and gestured violently to keep her voice low, "If your mother finds out she'll send me straight to a convent. She'll likely send you along as well for good measure, and you know it."

She laughed, "Perhaps, it certainly wouldn't surprise me. But I must say I'm shocked, Christine. I didn't think _you_ would act in such a way and not run straight to church for a confession."

"Only months ago I would have thought the same thing, but not now. It felt right, Meg. Being with him made me feel whole," I sighed, "I don't regret it. But now I fear that's all we'll ever share, that he won't come to his senses and realize that pursuing a future with me _won't_ destroy my life."

"Leave it to him to be so stubborn and yet still think himself considerate," she mused with affectionate annoyance, "What do you plan to do, then, now that you're here?"

"Until your mother gives him the signal that it is safe to come out of hiding, he's out there in the country indefinitely, and I know that she will be out to check up on him. So long as that's the arrangement, I can hope that he thinks long and hard about our situation in the meantime, and will send word to me if he chooses to continue our relationship. He cannot risk coming all the way out here, if he's seen he'll be captured, so this is the only way I can see for this to work."

"Well, I envy you your patience."

"Patient as I may be, it is out of necessity rather than any personal virtue. I'm actually quite terrified that I've made a heavy mistake."

"You've obviously thought this through, Christine, and you have time on your side right now. Why is it, then, that you still are so afraid?"

"It's as I said, my fear is that he'll never see reason in this, that my words won't get through to him and he'll leave altogether, just vanish and leave me behind thinking that he has no other choice."

Meg was thoughtful for a moment before continuing, "Did I ever tell you about the conversation he and I had when he came to Mama for help after the fire?"

"No, I don't think you did. Why?"

"You should hear this, then. He came to me very much unexpectedly and asked about you, if you were safe. His concern was quite sincere, he did nothing to hide it. I assured him that you were alright, safe and sound, and without realizing it I mentioned that you were with Raoul, that no harm would befall you with him. Well, I was afraid that my speaking of Raoul in connection with you might set off Erik's temper, but he shocked me, he simply nodded and said, 'Good, I'm relieved to hear that,' and then he sighed and said, 'I hope she'll be happy,' and he didn't say that with an ounce of anger or sarcasm in his voice. I grew up listening to Mama's stories of his temperaments, so I was expecting such poor behavior, but that wasn't the case. He sounded so sincere, so very sad at his blessing for you, and I was _sure_ then that he loved you. Someone doesn't let go of the person they fought for and wish them well unless they are truly in love, after all."

I smiled at Meg's story, but shook my head in response, "But I already know that he loves me, and obviously that's been the case for a long time now. So why are you telling me this?"

"Because it is that love that will bring him back."

"I'm not so sure it's enough. The more I think about it, the more I fear that I've lost him for good. He'll put me out of mind for both our sakes. He'll force himself to even if it kills him."

"He won't. He has the mind of a genius, Christine, one that never rests. Because of that, I'm sure that you will be on his mind constantly. His heart belongs to you as much as yours belongs to him. He loves you, and he won't stop thinking about you. That's the key. Your task now is to wait for his mind and his heart to finally meet and see reason once and for all."

I sighed, taking Meg's words to heart as best as I could. I sincerely hoped she was right; I wasn't sure how long I could stand my longing, no matter how much I convinced myself that my decision was right and that my resolve wasn't misplaced. I missed Erik terribly, and our fate was in his hands now.

I could only wait and hope that his love was stronger than his fear.

 **Author's Note:** _*pokes Erik with a stick* Okay, dude, your turn. Quit your bitching and figure this crap out. Let's fucking go!_


	10. Take Me to Eternity

**Author's Note:** _Welp, this chapter is going to be hella long, I'll tell y'all that right now. But hopefully that will make up for my lack of connectivity (again). My computer is really struggling, but not being able to post is entirely my fault for not having this story on Dropbox. But that's a rant for another day. This chapter has a lot going on but my hope is that it flows well without either rushing or dragging. Considering how long it took to get to this point of the story, I'd say its content should be most satisfying. On that note, the song for this chapter is "Eternity" by Richard Marx, and it singularly the most important of the piece as it inspired not only the story's title, but the lyrics of the song are just phenomenal. Since I first heard the song back in the 8th grade, I've wanted to incorporate it into a piece about Christine and Erik - it just seems to be the perfect explanation of Erik's desire for redemption, his hesitance, and how much his past has affected his life. So if there's any song I've recommended here, let this be the one y'all definitely check out. It's just beautiful. Thank you again for the reviews, darlings! Enjoy!_

Chapter 10 – Take Me to Eternity

Erik

Once I was certain that Christine wouldn't turn around and beg entry to my life once again, I flew back into the house and slammed the door with more force than I intended or thought myself capable. Breathing so heavily that I soon felt dizzy, I looked around the small house; its sudden emptiness in contrast with feeling so alive with my recent companion proved to be too much for my stress-addled mind. Feeling the sensation of mixed panic and rage worsening, I put my hands to my head, closed my eyes tightly, and screamed into the silence until my voice was hoarse – and even for some time beyond that. Doing so did absolutely nothing to relieve my quickly darkening emotions; to the contrary, my thoughts raced in time with my heart, and suddenly I felt as if I couldn't completely draw a breath. My chest felt tight and my vision swam in and out of focus. I absentmindedly thought that if I didn't regain control over myself, I would surely drop dead on the spot. _Half the mess of the gun for the same result,_ I thought with a bitter humor, but still forced enough consciousness to back up and lean heavily against the wall.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling, of course – just another part of the madness that has always plagued my mind and which has contributed to the worst of my decisions in the past. I was once again aware that something was going very wrong within my mind, but could do nothing to stop the vice grip of erratic emotions that was taking control of me. I could only wait for the unpleasant effects to pass and hope that I didn't do anything too destructive in the meantime. But even in knowing that much, I was still deeply compelled to act irrationally.

Before entirely achieving the calmness I sought, I found myself moving toward the door, my thoughts only on Christine and the possibility that I could somehow catch up with her. Standing in the open doorway, scarcely remembering reaching out and opening the front door, I looked into the distance; I could still reach her if I pushed my own horse to his physical limits, could follow the trail of footprints she left behind, call her to me once again and then…

And then what, exactly?

Despite my mind-numbing desperation, I was aware enough to know that going to her would be a mistake; beyond the fact that I would put myself out in the open in broad daylight, I had no right to ask her forgiveness – not after everything I had put her through and the great lengths I went to in order to push her away. And I certainly couldn't speak to her in my current state of mind and hope to make any sense whatsoever. Even if I could by some miracle persuade her to come back to me, I would only end up coming to my senses and needing for her to leave again, knowing that in the end we _had_ to be separated for good. My behavior alone was enough proof of that, and I was sure that we would only find ourselves in a vicious cycle of declaring our love and being ripped from each other's lives until one of us finally broke entirely and irreparably.

I had no intention of finding out who would go first.

I could see that much reason, but the reality of our situation was too much for me – just enough to fly me back into a rage that actually proved to be frightening in its intensity. When I was back inside I continued on with my anger and misery, allowing dark thoughts to put a veil over my eyes and force me to see only what a horrible mess my life was. I paced about like a caged animal, growing still more agitated as the moments ticked by. Without realizing where I was heading, I found myself in the bedroom standing before the window, the curtains still drawn open and revealing the vastness of the world beyond my doorstep. The strong, flickering light from the fireplace melded with the dull glow of the cloud-covered sun, giving the window a reflective quality almost as clear as if I stood in front of a mirror. I leaned against the windowsill and stared intently at my reflection – an action in which I rarely indulged – and was greeted by my eyes staring back at me, wild and pained and flashing insanity, giving only a glimpse of the torment I felt deeply within my soul.

They were the eyes of a monster, a maddened shell of a man, and while I scarcely recognized myself, I saw clearly once again how the rest of the world perceived me. All I could ever be was an actuality of anger, fear, and evil; whatever goodness Christine claimed I might still possess, I could not see it, could not even dare to hope that somehow she was right. I narrowed my eyes at my monstrous reflection, hatred consuming me and screaming over any other emotion I could have felt.

I could no longer face what I saw. With a choked and anguished cry, before I could think to stop myself, I raised my fists to the glass and slammed them against the smooth, cold surface with every ounce of strength I possessed. The glass shattered immediately, spilling from the window frame in a glittering mass of destruction. Standing before the scene and feebly attempting to regain control, it took me a few moments to realize that my violent outburst had caused a shard to tear through my shirt, effectively slicing through the skin of my arm just above my wrist. I was entirely numb to the pain until I felt the blood flowing from me; when I looked down at my injury, I was distantly startled by its extent and dimly aware of the fact that I was lucky the wound wasn't to the wrist itself. Only when these facts began to sink in was I able to feel calm. Whatever blind rage and misery I had felt before slipped slowly away from me.

As always, once the frenzied madness subsided, I was left only with a feeling of shame and regret at my actions – a deep and aching sadness that I desperately wanted to escape – but no longer did I see red or think in hectic, erratic patterns. My heartbeat calmed, and I was able to tend to my wound with a detached feeling of self-preservation.

~~oOo~~

Shattering that pane of glass turned out to be my last incident of irrational and violent behavior during my time in hiding. I may never understand how or why, but something in me snapped after the incident with the window, and an unexpected change in my behavior and outlook came as if from nowhere. It was certainly no miraculous revival or drastic change in my personality, but its presence was apparent and insistent.

The amber liquid within the brandy bottle shone in the firelight, translucent and shimmering as if I beheld a precious gem. Its glow beckoned to me, pulling me close to its poison and the prospect of a numbing means to an end which I had for so long sought to attain. It had been my intention to down the entire bottle, and then another, and still more if that's what it took for the darkness to take me away for good. When in previous weeks I had ensured that I stayed virtually catatonic but otherwise the owner of a beating heart even when seriously contemplating my own demise, the morning I sent Christine away was the morning I longed to cast control aside and be done with it. But each time I reached for the bottle, my hand faltered, and I never fulfilled the action that would serve to take me from this earth. I couldn't bring myself to make that final movement. As with the gun on so many previous occasions, something compelled me to stop.

It wasn't so long ago that my desire to live, to fight on through my despair was slipping away from me even despite my great fear of eternal punishment – that it had only been mere days, even hours since that point was almost absurd to me. But even though I felt entirely empty, a hopeless despair settling over me, I found myself suddenly unable to act upon my urge to bring forth my own death. No longer was I compelled to force numbness and eventually die by my own hand; the fog of alcohol no longer held the promise of relief, the brandy bottle had become as taboo and loathsome as the gun. With an odd sense of resignation – its reason I could not yet see – I left the bottle untouched. As the gun lay alone in its holster on a shelf in the corner, the bitter, stinging liquid sat upon the table, blending into the background and to be eventually forgotten.

Even in my anguish, the semblance of calmness returned to me before long. In my indefinite and newly reinstated solitude, I found myself in a state of detached monotony, oddly aware of yet otherwise uncaring about my surroundings. I sat before the fire, leaning my head back heavily in a gesture of complete exhaustion; my actions and wild emotions had sapped me of my strength, my aching and injured arm a bitter reminder of all that I had put myself through, but even so I could sit still without the need for agitated wandering. I made a mighty attempt to collect my thoughts, but I was not yet to the point where I could do so successfully; I simply had to content myself to remaining in one place for the time being.

In my lifetime, I've learned to trust my instincts in times when I've been aware enough to follow them without fear of being misled by my own sporadically deceiving mind. I've made it through the twenty-eight years of my life in doing so, and while I wouldn't call my quality of life anything but shameful, I survived against the odds. As the hours slipped past me, something prickled at my mind, a constant reminder ringing deeply within my consciousness that I couldn't die just then. Grudgingly, I followed that instinct yet again, convinced myself once and for all to put out of mind any ideas of dying. I wasn't thrilled at the notion, but in telling myself to remain calm and listen to this sudden resurgence of the need to survive, I could resign myself to the fate without dissolving entirely into hopelessness.

The problem that remained was what to do with myself then.

~~oOo~~

The house was long-abandoned by the time I came upon it in my mad flight to escape Paris. I was quite alone there, and had I been able to bring along something to keep my mind occupied during my isolation I might have been compelled to spend less of my time utterly and disgracefully shipped. But much of my art was left behind, my music burned before my very eyes as I took my final glances at the palatial building I once considered home, and from that point it had become somewhat painful to even consider putting pen to paper in any capacity. But entirely sober and somewhat annoyed at having nothing to occupy my time in the house, however much of it remained, I found myself searching shelves, cupboards, and my own meager possessions for something to calm my idle hands.

At length I came upon a ream of paper and charcoal tucked away on a high shelf. I had no idea if it belonged to me or the house's former owner, but that fact mattered little. It was enough that my pursuit had paid off, and I was surprised at how eager I was to begin working on _something_. What that might be I did not yet know, but at any rate I was granted a small reprieve from my pining and despair; the depression didn't entirely vanish, but I knew I could dull its persistence with a distraction, and I was duly grateful for the opportunity. Just that morning I was convinced that I might literally shatter as easily as the window had under my aggressive hand – that the contrast was in my favor, for once a seemingly positive outcome on my part was enough to quiet what remained of my turmoil.

The charcoal felt very right back in my hand, very familiar; the well-learned motions and techniques came back to me despite having not practiced the craft for some time. To begin with, I only sketched what I saw before me – an empty room, its looming shadows fighting to conquer the glow of the fireplace even as the flames soared with new strength at having been recently tended to. Concentrating almost entirely on the work, an absentminded memory slipped through my carefully guarded thought process, bringing to mind that morning when I wanted nothing more than a distraction in the form of a creative outlet; I wondered why I hadn't found the drawing materials then, why I couldn't have used that project to delay the devastating events that followed. _It wouldn't have changed the outcome,_ I reminded myself sadly, but quickly forced myself to change my train of thought. I knew I was still on quite unstable mental footing as it was and would be for quite some time until I managed to learn how to level myself out completely, and bringing such recent wounds to light could only serve to do me harm.

I sighed and finished the drawing. It was a good warm-up, but I wanted to return in full-swing to my long-practiced abilities. I soon found, however, that in completely lacking inspiration I was unable to think of anything – either of great or little importance – which I wanted to portray on paper. I racked my brain for any glimmer of an idea, thinking back in an attempt to remember the last subject that I had drawn. _Christine._ Of course. In spite of myself, I very nearly began a sketch of her, if anything just to be able to see her once again, but I couldn't bring myself to make a single mark on the page – not if the result of my efforts would be a physical image, a representation of the person and the events that so haunted me. I couldn't allow my longing and pain to cloud what remained of my judgment. Once again making a genuine effort to follow my instincts, I discarded the idea altogether. I could draw anything else – Christine's image should only remain in my mind's eye, her memory in my heart.

But in making that folly, I opened the door once again to thoughts of her, of holding her and making love to her and sending her away. Everything we said to one another – my fear and determined stance on the matter, her pleas for more time, every admission and sweet whispered declaration of love – swirled around in my head as if the conversations were happening again before my very eyes. I put my hand to my mouth and tried to hold back the pain; it was a motion of implied control to little avail, but it calmed me enough not to fly into an intense, visceral response at our circumstances once more. I felt still so utterly lost and hopeless, but I didn't want to give in to the agony again. Every nerve in my body called out to allow myself to think of her, but I had to force her away even then. If I had any chance of getting through this, I had to put her out of mind.

It didn't stop me thinking of her entirely, but the prospect of perseverance kept me as level-headed as I could be. I put the charcoal to the paper and began to draw what I remembered of the streets of Paris instead.

~~oOo~~

Madame Giry came round several days later for her routine assurance of my well-being. Little was said between us – the moment she attempted to make mention of Christine, I silenced her as patiently as possible. Christine was safe, that was all I needed to know; any further details might be enough to shatter my resolve. I still didn't understand my sudden pursuit of life, but that strange _something_ in the back of my mind urged me to keep going, and I did everything I could to appease the call. When thoughts of Christine passed through my mind, I dispelled them as quickly as possible, knowing that thinking about her – about us – too long would only make me want to reach out to her again. Madame Giry was frustrated at my stubbornness, but with a knowing glance at me she said nothing to convince me otherwise. She handed me a newspaper, heaved a last sigh of disapproval, and left the house. I was relieved for the exchange to end; even in its brevity the moments of the visit seemed to drag on.

The newspaper – otherwise containing articles that failed to catch my attention and held no interest for me – told the story of the Opera Populaire's revival and highly anticipated grand reentrance into the world. I was wholly unprepared for that; even though Christine had so recently told me that the extent of the damage wasn't as staggering as I had feared, the notion that the building would once again soon be open and functioning in all its former glory seemed oddly wrong to me. Everything about our lives had changed in the blink of an eye – the building's façade might appear otherwise unscathed and utterly normal, but to me it seemed as if its very soul was gone. Without us there, it was but a structure of brick and mortar; no longer my kingdom, no longer Christine's safe haven. And yet it would continue to stand tall, to house the lives of performers and artists and the peal of music as if we had never existed.

It was appalling.

Worse even, the news brought Christine to the very center stage of my mind with a staggering intensity. I had continuously been unsuccessful in entirely warding off thoughts of her since sending her from my life, but I kept the worst of my reflections at bay. Of all the things I avoided for fear of causing my agony to come back in full force and therefore smother my newest resolve to live, I hadn't considered the opera house to be a threat to my mind. And yet it had quite successfully shaken me, and before I realized it, once I was powerless to stop it, I thought of Christine again almost constantly. I began to consider that I had in fact made a horrible mistake in severing our contact completely but denied myself such a stretch of reason, and in doing so my longing for her increased tenfold.

Moreover, thoughts of Christine and the sudden reminder of the opera house's imminent reopening reminded me jarringly of how deeply its involvement in our lives ran. In acknowledging its existence, I could not help but ignore the flashes of her memory that came to mind. It was where she and I met, where we fell in love. I thought back to those early days, when she saw me simply as something ethereal, too mysterious to behold. And even when my façade was worn away by love and desperation, she stayed with me, wound her way through the labyrinth of passageways and corridors to my home, to the chapel, to every one of our haunts. Had I been any other man I might have courted her properly then, we could have lost ourselves there like so many young lovers before us. Something about the building inspired romance, and for better or worse we indeed had fallen victim to its spell.

I would have given anything to change the outcome, but I knew I could never bring myself to regret my time with her. Not when I really thought about it. I missed the Opera Populaire then with a deep ache; it compelled me to take out a blank sheet of paper and begin to bring the building to life on the page from my memories. It had been one of the few places in my life where I could say I felt contentment, if not at least the briefest of happiness. That I had so carelessly sought to destroy it in my anger was disgraceful. Thinking of that night, I better understood Christine's part in trying to bring me to justice – we had all played our roles that night, made our choices that painted the outcome in ways we could never have imagined. No one was faultless, no one undeserving of forgiveness. That small realization gave me a bit of comfort as I drew the building that housed my greatest passions and bore witness to my downfall.

Some time later, the sketch complete to my satisfaction, I still felt the pull of inspiration to let the charcoal move fluidly over paper. In the reawakening of my portrait drawing, I had longed to but until then avoided drawing anything that had to do with Christine. But the image of the opera house pouring from my own hand opened the gateway to the strength to at least summon some part of her. I settled on her hands – on paper, they could have been anyone's, but I knew the subject from which I drew inspiration. I drew our hands together, fingers entwined in a gesture of both love and hesitance, relishing in seeing the details before me; it was all I could give myself, but it somehow eased some of my pain. Seeing that image come to life before me, I recalled yet again the night of intimacy we shared, forgetting the physical release almost entirely and holding on tightly to the memory of our simple togetherness.

In the days following the disaster at the opera house, I never thought I would see her again, let alone that she would love me and see past my wretchedness to the man behind the mask. She never ceased to take my breath away. It was clear that trying to keep her from my thoughts was a wasted effort. I would not be able to stop thinking of her, for I could never stop loving her.

~~oOo~~

 _She hasn't stopped loving me, either,_ was the distant thought that proceeded my impulse to draw our hands – a thought that panged for days afterward – but I made a mighty attempt to discard the notion even as I continuously picked up the picture of our joined hands to see it again. I knew exactly where we stood emotionally, but it didn't change our circumstances, and I only served to torture myself by entertaining thoughts that change was indeed even a remote possibility for us. _But it could be. Everything could still be different,_ came that plea for reason again. I sighed; how dare I dream of that which I forced myself to set free? I had to remind myself constantly of everything that I had put her through, that both my noblest intentions and blackest of moods had been the catalyst in all of this. I set our separation in motion long ago, and I had to come to terms with the consequences.

 _Everyone can have a fresh start,_ her words whispered in my memory. Her pointed gaze in my mind's eye told me that she meant the sentiment to be for me, something I should carefully consider. I shook my head; such a simple idea as starting over was utterly lost upon me. It was an oversimplified notion, a far-fetched dream that if we only continued on with our lives together and never looked back that the past would be but a distant memory that held no power over our futures. She trusted that sentiment far too much, whereas I refused to allow us the risk – I had to refuse it. I wouldn't let her continue to get hurt because of me, the thought of doing so paralyzed my heart with disquietude.

I knew how badly my fear was holding me back from even the faintest glimpse of reason. But if I was perfectly honest with myself, I couldn't deny that there was still more to it than that. I had made it clear that I was afraid of losing her, of cursing her to a life of uncertainty, and I was not preaching falsehoods in telling her that much. But it went deeper than that, I knew. Deep within my heart, I feared having love and happiness stripped from my life once more, for each time it happened the blow was far more crushing than the last. And further still, it wasn't only losing the presence of happiness that terrorized me; it was the happiness itself. I feared happiness because I had no idea what to do with it – I didn't know how to truly be happy. The prospect of it becoming a permanent fixture in my life was too overwhelming to face.

Bearing all this in mind, I continued to try to convince myself that I had been right all along, that our coming together had been singularly wonderful but temporary – too good to be true for long. Happiness was a fleeting thing, something I could only witness but not keep to myself for long. I could be grateful to her for sharing even the smallest moments of bliss, for loving me as she had, but to think we could remain together for a lifetime simply was not practical – it was not safe or fair to her.

And yet…

And yet she in turn had made it clear that she was wholly aware of the precariousness of our lives, should we choose to go on together; she knew the risks, that there would be uncertainty, but she was willing to go with me into the dark. She loved me as I loved her. Somehow it seemed that she could see when I couldn't that our love would prove to be stronger than anything else. Somehow we could have peace and redemption in each other if we only made the steps, hand in hand, plunging into our future. Doing so would be our only chance at a life fulfilled, it was clear. She came back after our long weeks of separation, day after day until I finally let her back into my life, to tell me as much; she insisted upon drawing me from my despair to bring me such understanding.

 _She came back._ She always came back. Somehow, despite every ounce of pain we put each other through, despite wandering through Hell blindly searching for any shred of comfort, she came back. In the end we built each other up, she eased my pain and I helped her discover her strength without even realizing my role in that. She begged me to see reason, all she asked of me was to take her hand and go down the path of the unknown with her. If in the end we were together, it would have all been worth it. In sending her away, I effectively shot down whatever potential we might have had, stripped her of her choices and myself of my own. No longer could she be the center figure in my life. Yet she had always come back to me, and the look in her eyes as she uttered her last words to me begged me to recognize that she always would, should I ever come to my senses and let myself _see_.

A sudden realization dawned on me so forcefully I very nearly dropped the portrait. It had been there all along, the proof that I had acted too hastily. It wasn't only that she came back to me after each and every one of our shared tragedies; she had always _been there_ through and despite it all. Christine was the one constant in my life and had been for quite some time. When I had yearned to be her savior, her protector deserving of her affections, she was in fact actively doing so for me. We made each other whole; for so long I had known all of this, struggled to put it into words and actions worthy of respect, but that night, looking upon the image as simple as our hands coming together, everything fell into place. All hope was not lost.

She was the moon in my black sky, a beacon of acceptance and understanding. In our time together, we had become the keys to one another's existence – our struggles had to mean something, the fact that I followed my instincts and kept living despite so many feelings of utter hopelessness couldn't simply be a coincidence. She had been telling me all along that we could move forward, that we were ready to make the leap into the unknown for the sake of our love. And I finally heard her, was finally ready to cast my fears aside and understand that we could be happy. We were _allowed_ to be happy. Nothing could change the past, and it wouldn't be an easy journey, but we could have a future together. And I wanted nothing more than to be with her for the rest of my life.

Once the clarity of my revelations finally settled over me, it didn't take me long to make my decision. I stood from my chair in a flash. Darkness had fallen over the world, and seeing its cloaking protectiveness pulled a new resolve from me to act that night. It was finally time to go to her, to make the pilgrimage to Paris and tell her the truth; her reaction to me was entirely up to her, but I was no longer willing to keep her in the dark. She required more respect from me than my stubborn abandonment, and I was finally able to see that I could be a better man for her, all that she deserved and more. And if I was recognized and captured in my journey, it would be worth it – I would take that risk because Christine was worth it.

We would never stop loving each other. But no longer would we feel the pain of dreams unfulfilled. Of that I was entirely certain.


	11. Heaven is Where You Are

**Author's Note:** _Thanks for all the lovin', everyone! I love the reviews and I'm grateful for the feedback. And even if you don't have a moment to review, once again I must say I appreciate y'all heading over and giving this story a read. :) That said, here we have a chapter that I hope will be as enjoyable as the rest, and again I truly hope the pacing and touches of bitching is realistic. It's fluffy to some extent, a smidge of worry and angst here and there, which I'm sure y'all were expecting, but finally some fucking progress. ;) The title for this chapter comes from the song "Let Me Be Your Wings" by Barry Manilow from the "Thumbelina" (1994) soundtrack. I'm totally dating myself here, but getting to use it now makes me super happy because I was obsessed with that movie as a child. Hell, it's almost as old as me, what else did I have to watch? Oh, yes, everything Disney had to offer. My poor mother still has those songs memorized from my and my sister's constant playing of those tapes. Bless her. But I digress. Anywhoodles, this song, of course, is one great for fluff/sentiment that I highly recommend y'all check out if you're not familiar with the lyrics. It's very much how I'd envision Erik promising a better future for the two of them and pledging his love and devotion without straight up ripping off Raoul *cough*AllIAskOfYouReprise*cough* Sorry, but he wrote an entire fucking opera yet he couldn't express his love for Christine in his own words? He had to take that which was Raoul's? Come on ALW, give Erik more credit than that. Sorry, a sore-spot, and again I digress. So all of that out in the open, I hope this lighter fare will suffice until I start fucking with the characters again. *gasp* Once more I find that I've said too much...Enjoy!_

Chapter 11 – Heaven is Where You Are

Christine

The first few days of uncertain waiting for Madame Giry to bring any news from Erik were easy enough to handle. Meg's words of encouragement propelled me away from my initial bouts of anguished fretfulness effectively enough to help me remind myself of why I left in the first place. When those days turned into a week, I grew frustrated, but I understood the continued silence on Erik's part; I had to be patient, had to remind myself that the time I had given him was exactly what he needed. But after two weeks, I was simply ready to throttle him. It was an absurd notion, of course, a completely misplaced anger. Madame Giry had only seen him once since our separation, and he couldn't very well come to me under the circumstances. But still, I longed for him, and each passing day made me desperate for any kind of answer, some last shred of understanding. Whatever he decided, if he could bring himself to think of me at all, would impact us severely – define our future – and waiting for him was a true test to the steadiness of my nerves – a test that I began to falter on after time.

In the meantime, I had little else to do with myself. Spending my time attempting to calm my idle hands certainly did nothing to help relieve my stress. Without the routine provided by working at the opera house or the distracting monotony of planning my wedding to Raoul, I found myself with far too much time on my hands, only serving to increase my dread. When once I had thought myself a simple girl, as I got older I realized that I could never be a woman of complete inaction – a calm life certainly and happy domesticity had its appeal, but utter dormancy would never be a part of that serenity, if I had anything to do with it. To endure the wait between absolute abandonment and the promise of any kind of future with little direction or distraction was aggravating to say the least.

After the first few days of worried inactivity, I realized that it was imperative that I try to occupy my time as productively as possible. It wouldn't do to simply while away in total worry – doing so for long would surely be unhealthy, of that much I was sure. And whether I puttered around the house worrying over each and every possible outcome for us or found a way to distract myself, there was nothing I could do regarding Erik. Fretting over that which was out of my control would get me nowhere. It was his turn to make his choices, my role having been fulfilled for the time. It took a great amount of strength not to fly into the night in a desperate attempt to reach him once again, hoping the outcome of doing so would not be disastrous, but I stayed away. His heart had to speak to him amidst the turmoil of his mind in order to find me again, that's all there was to it.

I was certainly experiencing a whirlwind of emotions, but I reminded myself that it was for a greater purpose.

At length, Madame Giry and Meg invited me to accompany them to the Opera Populaire. Amidst the rubble and repairs underway, members of the cast and crew had made their pilgrimage to the theater in order to bring the company back together. The newspapers had made it no secret that the opera house would reopen, and the city of Paris seemed utterly relieved to have the semblance of normalcy promised them – when the opera house returned, so would the height of society, their gathering place reawakened and in turn the livelihoods of each employee reinstated – those that chose to return, at any rate. Madame Giry suggested, in her brusque yet motherly insistent manner, that I too should return to my position in the ballet. Grudgingly, I knew it should be something I carefully considered. If I was wrong and Erik had in fact intended to leave me behind, then I would need some means of supporting myself. I would not be left destitute by any means; I had long-since grown from my naivety to understand that I must always have my options available. And so in this spirit, I watched as Madame wrangled her corps de ballet, imagining myself among the masses once again.

I was not received with welcoming and open arms – my involvement in the disaster was well and widely known. Indeed I was met with unshielded gazes of contempt, but I held my head high and met their anger with a stony confidence. I had my role in the disaster, certainly, but they were no less guilty than I; had they known the whole story, they might have looked upon our plight with sympathy. _Had they not shunned Erik he might not have known such pain,_ I thought sadly. Nothing of the circumstances which led us to that need to rebuild were pleasant, few of our choices wise. We were all victims of a greater cruelty, of man's inability and unwillingness to see beauty under turmoil, and their reaction to my presence at rehearsals that day was nothing short of ignorant. But I chose not to dwell upon that which I could not change; like Erik, these people must come to their own conclusions on their own time. I could not make decisions for anyone but myself.

I raised my chin and carried on through the day, knowing that if I found myself in a position to work there once again, I would endure all adversity and be stronger for it. I repeated to myself that _something_ would work out in the end.

~~oOo~~

The gentle chime of the clock on the mantelpiece told me that it was past midnight, yet weariness didn't overcome me that night. When at length being in the apartment proved to make me entirely too restless – my longing for Erik increased in the silence of the slumbering world – I decided to step outside awhile, if only to stand upon the steps and collect my thoughts yet again. The air was bitterly cold against my face, but the shock of it as I stepped out into the night drew me from the worst of my thoughts; it was comforting, a welcome reminder of my place in the world. I was alive, I shared my life with both my closest friends and the passersby of daylight. When morning came, the world would bustle about again; footprints dotting the snow before me were a testament to the humanity which surrounded me. I needed to see that, to calm myself and feel that sense of belonging. I sighed, my breath coming from me in plumes against the frigid weather. I was quite alone for the moment – I leaned against the front door, wrapped my arms around myself, and gazed over the scene before me, the quiet street aglow in the moonlight.

I hadn't intended to go inside when I saw the figure emerge from the darkness several apartment buildings away from me. Although I was otherwise alone, I didn't feel that I was in any danger; he wore a peacoat and a hat, entirely unidentifiable but otherwise plain and unassuming, his stooped posture made me think he was simply sheltering himself from the cold breeze that disturbed the previously still air. He remained at a considerable distance from me and seemed quite uncaring of my presence, if he was aware of it at all. Still standing in my little nook by the door, I felt no alarm. But when his steady stride turned slightly to me, I stiffened nervously. Surely he was simply a neighbor, perhaps as close as next door, and was only trying to make his way safely home that night. Turning toward me had to be a coincidence; I was being paranoid.

He continued walking directly toward me – if I wasn't mistaken, his pace seemed to quicken, and it was only then that I took a discreet yet firm grasp of the doorknob. I wouldn't embarrass myself by making a hasty, panicked escape if he indeed turned out to belong to the neighborhood, but I wouldn't be caught entirely helpless either. I held my ground, remaining cognizant of my surroundings, yet I was distantly aware of being somewhat transfixed upon the man. He was tall, I could tell that much even with the space still left between us, and his gait was that of a powerful, confident man – elegant and commanding even in his anonymity. It struck me then that he was oddly familiar. I couldn't place it just then, but it was as if a shadow of a memory were attempting to emerge from my mind, something telling me that this familiar figure was singularly important.

He was only yards from me, his body facing me directly, and I nearly opened the door to make a safe retreat when he lifted his head, dispelling all the shadows which had been cast upon his countenance. The white mask glinted in the moonlight, and when my senses caught up to me, I gasped.

"My God, Erik?"

A wide grin shone upon his face at my words. His eyes danced in guarded excitement as he nearly ran to bridge the space between us. Before either one of us could say anything further, he took me up in his arms, an embrace that I had so sorely missed in our time of separation. He held me close to him fiercely, and I returned the gesture with as much fervor. The moment we came together, every ounce of fear and anger and dread was taken from me entirely. My relief at seeing him again was palpable; tears pricked at my eyes before I realized just how strongly his touch had affected me. Still holding me tightly, as if letting go entirely would surely break the spell and separate us once again, he pulled back slightly and looked intently into my eyes, held me with his own as if he himself could hardly believe what he saw.

"I'm sorry," he said, kissing me quickly and repeating, "I'm so sorry, Christine," and then furrowing his brow he asked, "What on earth were you doing out here alone? I came up the road thinking I'd have to find a way to wake Madame Giry to be able to see you."

"I could ask the same of you. _I_ stepped out for a bit of air, but I certainly wasn't expecting you. I hadn't thought you could come here for risk of being captured. Is it safe for you to be here even in the dark?"

"Darling, for as uneventful as my journey was, I could have been taking a Sunday stroll for all it mattered. Not a soul was out there, I was not followed," he smiled, "Even so, it was worth the risk. I cannot stay long, but I had to see you tonight. I had to come speak with you, ask your forgiveness."

I sighed, "There's nothing to forgive – "

"– But there is. I was very unfair to you, and not for the first time."

"Perhaps, but I can understand why. And I accepted having to leave, remember? I knew you could only come back to me on your own, that nothing I could say would convince you otherwise."

"You knew that all along?"

"I did. I didn't know immediately, but after time I was sure."

He rolled his eyes and smiled in mock-annoyance, "You could have told me that."

"You were in no state to listen."

"Fair point. What happened to make you so determined? All this time among my madness and yet you're still here."

"In my life, so much has been taken from me, so many people that I've loved. Much was out of my control, but I decided not long ago that if I could prevent any more pain and loss, I would do everything I could to do so. For us, the answer became clear that this was a loss I could prevent if only I was patient."

"You're a wise woman. For that I respect you, I hope you know. Still, my stubbornness has obviously taken its toll, and for that I am deeply sorry."

"Then I forgive you. But that's not the only reason you're here, I take it."

"Certainly not. I only hope I can say this properly," he paused and took my hands before continuing, "It took me far too long to realize what you've been trying to tell me all along, the answer just below the surface that I refuse to accept. But I know now that it doesn't have to be the end for us. I don't want us apart anymore, Christine. I don't want to go from here knowing that I'll do it alone. It was a mistake to send you away, to think that I was doing either of us any favors. I regret that, but still I hope it's not too late for us. If I've made you wait too long, then I'll accept that. But I won't leave here tonight without you knowing what I've come to know, and how badly I've missed you."

"I've missed _you._ I had so hoped that Madame Giry would return with news that you wanted me to come back to you," I looked down sadly and continued, "I must admit I began to fear that I had become another regret in your life."

"You can't be serious," he said evenly, his voice devoid of anger and holding instead an air of remorse, "There are many things in my past and of my actions which I regret, every bit of pain I've put you through I count among the worst of them. But I will never regret knowing you. Having you in my life has been an experience I would have never thought myself worthy of being granted. I want you in my life, I need you, and for too long I've been blind to the very idea of us being able to come together."

"But you can see it now, you're sure? You truly can accept that continuing on together won't be the beginning of the end?"

"Now I do, yes. There's a lot that I've come to realize. And I want to share that with you, share my life. If you'll still have me, I want us to go down that path together."

I smiled, "Of course I'll still have you, my darling."

He kissed me again, so tenderly I thought my heart would burst. We stayed that way for a long time, I reveled in the fact that I was in his arms again, that he had found his way back to me.

When we parted, he held me close and put his forehead to mine, whispering, "I love you so much, Christine."

"I love you," I sighed and looked at him squarely, hoping to convey my utter seriousness, "Don't lose yourself again, don't take yourself from me."

"I won't. I promise."

"Thank you," I sighed.

From his coat he pulled a rose, presenting it to me in a gentlemanly flourish, "For you. I should like to court you properly, now that it seems we shall be remaining together awhile. Or certainly I'll court you as best as I can under the circumstances."

I accepted it with a blush, and stroking its soft petals gently I wondered, "Where did you get this so late at night?"

"A magician never tells his secrets."

I gasped, mildly appalled but surprisingly amused, "You stole it, didn't you?"

With a devilish grin, he responded, "Some things never change, I suppose."

"You're incorrigible."

"The rose won't be missed, if that is of any help to your conscience."

"Perfectly sinful," I mused with a smile, "But I appreciate the gesture just the same."

"I'm glad it's to your liking. But I fear it's now something of a parting gift as well. I cannot stay much longer."

"I worry about you so, it's such a long way. Can't you stay here tonight?"

"Alright, well which one of us do you propose asks Madame Giry about _that_ arrangement? Am I to retire with you girls, then? I'm sure Maman will be absolutely thrilled at the prospect," he laughed, "But honestly, it's late and there's no room. Even if space were made for me, it's not worth the fuss to either wake everyone now or explain my presence in the morning."

I sighed, "You make a reasonable point, though thinking back to your earlier comment, know that your teasing does not go unnoticed. Remember that you're trying to court me, and I shall take notice of your chides in my direction."

"I'll take care from now on," he said with a tone of jesting formality, and I couldn't help but laugh at our exchange.

"Are you sure it's safe for you to go back tonight?" I asked seriously.

"Absolutely. I'll be fine."

"When will I see you again?"

"You can either wait for another of Madame's jaunts in my direction, or you can come to me yourself, as early as tomorrow if it suits you. You are more than welcome," he added with a grin, "You know which of the options I prefer."

"Then I'm coming tomorrow."

He walked me back to the front door, insisting that he ensured my safe reentrance into the apartment. His eyes were earnest and I saw in them the man I had fallen in love with once again, the light behind his eyes slowly returning. He held me as closely and tightly as before as he kissed me goodnight, his tenderness so apparent that it was clear he was as loath as I was to break the connection. Our togetherness felt right; he was the only one with which I could feel such closeness. My heart soared at his very presence – I knew how singularly significant it was to see him that night.

 _He came back to me,_ I thought, _He found me again, he's finding himself._

We parted ways, and as I closed the door and secured the bolt, I felt lighter than air.

I wasted no time in running to the bedroom and waking Meg, excitedly telling her what had just happened. It was an absurd notion, brought on my sheer excitement I was sure, but it seemed to me that if I didn't tell someone I'd wake later and discover that seeing Erik had been but a dream.

"I told you he'd come back, dear," she said blearily, and I couldn't help but laugh in the darkness.

~~oOo~~

I woke long before dawn, knowing I should begin my journey before the sun rose too high and effectively stripped me of the protective covering of darkness; I could hardly sleep in my excitement and was exceedingly eager to be on my way. Madame Giry arose early as well to help send me off safely; I had gone to her after gushing with a sleepy but smiling Meg the night before with the news that Erik had been out to see me, and while Madame grumbled about his stubbornness and the ungodly hour of my giddiness, she made no effort to hide her relief on our behalf.

I was just gathering the last of what I needed to travel when she handed me a sealed envelope. I looked at her with some confusion.

"For Erik," she explained, "It is good news."

My curiosity was piqued, but I didn't press for more information; I knew better than to pry. If Madame didn't say something outright, it was not meant to be heard. I nodded and tucked the parcel into a deep pocket in my coat, bid Madame Giry a sweet, grateful farewell for the time, and made my way to the stables down the street and just outside the neighborhood where my mare was boarded.

I had made the trek to Erik's hideaway so many times since returning to Paris that even in the darkest moments before dawn, I traveled easily and confidently. The great weight of apprehension that had lifted from my shoulders only hours before added to my sense of ease; the only thing that was on my mind then was that my return to Erik was not only expected, but happily anticipated. The glowing of firelight from the front windows beckoned me as I drew closer to the property. My mare safely tucked away, I nearly flew back to the front door. Erik smiled but didn't speak when he greeted me – we simply held each other again, as if desperately needing to make up for lost time. It was that comfort and familiarity that we fought for, one of many battles hard-won in our time together. To revel in the contact seemed only too appropriate under the circumstances.

He had been sketching when I arrived; his supplies lay upon the table by the chairs before the fire, his hands dusted with marks from the charcoal. It was refreshing to view him in a state of creativity, to see it finally returned to him. That he was actively practicing a craft said much about the state of his wellbeing; I remembered forcefully how his inactivity, intensified by his black state of mind, had pulled him deeply into despair and clouded much of his judgment. Knowing that he was regaining control over aspects of his life bit by bit gave me all the more reason to breathe a sigh of relief. However, with his sleeves rolled up for his work, I glimpsed a scar on his arm – a very newly healed one – and I felt a deep sense of worry come back to me.

"What happened?" I asked cautiously, stroking the injury and unsure of whether or not my question would be cause for panic to him. He was on the mend, his emotions leveling out and his thinking far more rational, but I knew there would still remain times when we would both have to tread lightly.

He sighed, tilted his head toward the bedroom and made a gesture for me to follow, "Come with me. I hate to have such a serious conversation so shortly after your arrival, but you should know about this."

My eyes were immediately drawn to the window; through a gap in the otherwise completely drawn curtains, I saw that newspaper was plastered to the glass, a sure sign that it was covering a hole of sharp edges and the echoes of great pain. Just above the corner of the text I could faintly make out a series of cracks in the pane, their webbed patterns glistening slightly in the candlelight. It was obvious what the connection was between Erik's scar and the hastily-repaired damage. What drove him to the action was what concerned me. My gaze shifted from the window to him again – his face remained a portrait of utter self-control, but his eyes flickered with apprehension. Whatever the reason behind it, he seemed very ashamed of the action indeed.

"Why did you do it?" I asked softly, attempting to coax from him the simple recognition that he could trust me to hold the knowledge, however difficult it was, and not pass a hasty judgment. Despite the newly-banded promises and understanding between us, his lifetime of misery had taught him to be wary and to prepare for abandonment – it would take time for him to completely let his pain go and realize that I was not going to turn and run from him. I understood that, and I needed him to start realize it as well.

He looked at me, and a flash in his eyes told me that he understood and trusted my sincerity, "The morning we parted ways was…exceedingly difficult for me. I couldn't handle it. When I saw myself in the reflection of that glass, I saw a monster. I acted irrationally, and I very nearly lost the will to go on from there."

"But you didn't. You didn't let yourself fall any further."

"No. Something changed. And that change led me back to you."

"Everything in its time," I mused.

"Apparently so."

"You needn't feel shame at this, Erik," I gestured toward the window, "You already explained how your mind works. I understand that this isn't easy for you."

"And for that, I am grateful. But even though you can understand, it still frightens me. It's been better lately, to be sure, but that broken glass, this scar, reminds me that I am not always in control. They remind me that very _recently_ I fell quite far again. The desire to be better is certainly there, but I cannot become a different man overnight."

"I never said you had to."

"I know. But in the meantime, I cannot guarantee you complete peace near me, to put it very simply. That bothers me immensely."

"Tell me you're not having second thoughts," I asked, the dread in my voice betraying my otherwise controlled manner.

"I am not. I just want to be clear on this. I want you to know exactly what it is that you're getting into. My life is not one of stability."

"I'm not just 'getting into' this, you know. I've known you a long time, and I know the darker side of you threatens your wellbeing constantly. But that's not who you are. I do not look at you and see a lowly monster. I only see someone capable of reaching great heights."

He nodded in reply, whispering a simple expression of gratitude that spoke volumes, then looking toward the hallway, "It's warmer out there."

Only when we had returned to the chairs before the fireplace, talking softly for a time in an effort to broach lighter topics of conversation, did I remember the letter that Madame Giry had sent along with me. Retrieving it from my now-cast aside coat, I watched patiently as Erik read it quickly. Somewhat childishly, I hoped that he would at least share with me part of what the message contained, if only to appease my inquisitiveness. Such curiosity was tempted that much more when Erik's eyebrows raised and a shocked laugh escaped him.

"I'll be damned," he breathed.

"What is it?"

His eyes met mine steadily, "She said I can leave here. I can leave France. It's safe."

"Goodness," I said numbly, the reality of our situation returning to me jarringly. The reason we found ourselves as we were in that moment centered around our choices, the disaster at the opera and the subsequent escape into the night, and it suddenly felt strange that I had focused so much on anything else. I nearly laughed at the truth that our warring emotions had, in all these weeks, taken center-stage over the fact that Erik was indeed in hiding – a thought that I only dimly acknowledged when carefully going to see him without being spotted and when returning to the opera house, but little otherwise until that moment.

"I suppose I could have stayed in Paris last night after all," he said with some humor, "It would have saved you the trip, at any rate."

I smiled at that, "Yes, it certainly would have. When do you leave, then? Where do you plan to go from here?" I asked with a prick of embarrassment at not having inquired before then.

"London," he said distractedly, "The boat I'm to be on leaves in a week, so says the letter. This is," he searched for words, "this is pivotal, Christine. The choice is yours, keep that in mind. But I _have_ to leave. Whether or not you come with me is the question. I know I said last night that it is my desire to have you by my side through all of this, but I have to be absolutely sure now. Is this another risk you're willing to take with me? To leave France, everyone and everything you know and love here?"

I took his hands in mine, "After everything that we've been through, it would be utter foolishness on my part to not see this through to the end, whatever that may be."

"Then you think you're ready to come with me?"

"I am."

He nodded and kissed my hands, squeezing them gently in reassurance, "Then whatever happens from here out, we're going together. I want you there with me."

I smiled, "That's what I hoped for all this time," and teased, "And in the meantime, I recall you mentioning your intention to court me properly."

"Don't underestimate me, I have not forgotten," he feigned insult and released my hands, walking determinedly to a bookcase across the room.

From a high shelf he retrieved a small, golden box and brought it to me. I took the object and examined it, marveling at its ornate exterior and recognizing it as a music box. He turned its key and a high, tinny melody filled the air. It was not a tune I recognized, but it was breathtakingly sweet, a slow song of love and delight, and I was swept into a cloud of bliss as the notes swirled around us. Erik set the music box on the mantle and approached me once more, holding his hand out to me with an air of formal elegance.

"May I have this dance?"

The firelight flickered around us as we danced together, moving with grace and familiarity as if we were in step with the finest orchestra. He led with an assurance that left me weak at the knees, and not for the first time I remembered why I fell in love with him, that beneath the façade of fierce and angry self-preservation and countless missteps, his humanity yearned to defeat his demons. Steadily, he returned to his greatness; it was only in small glimpses to begin with, but I saw his confidence reemerging, a quality of self-assurance that I knew wouldn't be as fleeting as it had been so recently. The fire within him was coming back, finally growing strong enough to threaten and conquer the darkness that for so long violently sought to consume him. I knew he was correct in saying that our journey would not be easy, but I saw glimmers of hope returning to many aspects of ourselves and our lives; I knew it would be worth the effort – my choices revealing themselves to be successful was proof of that.

When the melody slowed and finally ceased altogether, he took me up in his arms and kissed me, very slowly, as if he were trying to capture and keep the moment forever. His actions conveyed more to me than words ever could, his devotion to our love winning out over all else; we would spend the day together, that night we would sleep together – share our thoughts and our bodies and our bed – and in the morning I knew he would still be there. I no longer feared his abandonment, for he no longer feared being betrayed by his own heart.

We were moving forward, hand in hand into the glorious unknown. There was nowhere else I wanted to be than in his arms for the rest of my life.


	12. Into the Dark

**Author's Note:** _Alrighty, I know y'all are anxious to have this underway, so I'll just run through a couple of things quickly. First, a quick note to Sapphirelight, since you're on guest and I cannot reply to you directly (*grumblegrumble* :P) - Thank you for the reviews, and yeah I can't stand when Erik is suddenly like the "perfect man," all lovey and sensitive (more so than what is canon) and is literally just a lapdog wearing an apron (I've read phics where this is basically the case). I strive for realistic character development now, because I've come a long way from my thirteen-year-old self wanting nothing more than fluffy, dramatic romance and a dead Raoul. So shit like that just irks me. /rant Well anywhoodles, I'm glad that was satisfactory to you as a reader. Secondly, I truly am so sorry to darken your fluff cloud. I'll just say this now, you're going to reeeeally hate me here in a bit. So...yeah. My apologies in advance. Have a cookie. :) Alrighty, that said as a general tidbit, yes, we're going to get into more of the action/melodrama here, and as this is something I'm fairly new to writing, I'm hoping for it to (as always) flow well and be realistic, so dear readers, do let me know if anything can be improved upon. Finally, the chapter titles is from the Death Cab for Cutie song of the same name, although y'all don't necessarily need to listen to it as only a few of the lyrics really stand out to me as being POTO-esque, but I absolutely love the title and general theme, and have been wanting to use it for a while. Welp, enough of my ramblings. Thank you a million times to everyone reading, following, and favoriting! R &R, and enjoy! _

Chapter 12 – Into the Dark

Christine

The following morning, it was my intention to sleep late into the day until the sun was high and its light strong, enjoying the serenity of waking up with Erik beside me. It was another story entirely to convince him that such luxury was acceptable. He grumbled in protest and I laughed at his efforts, but at length I was able to draw him back into my arms with the promise of my touch and the reminder that our journey that night would be taxing – we would appreciate the additional rest later, I was sure. He conceded to my logic and lay beside me once more without complaint – we talked long and lazily into the morning, planning and dreaming, newly dedicated lovers on our way to a future as yet unseen but eagerly anticipated. We put the worries of uncertainty aside and enjoyed the simplicity of our togetherness – there would be time to fuss over practical details of the future later.

We were only drawn from our serene domesticity some time later by the grudging acknowledgement that we still had responsibilities to tend to before our flight into the darkness and our eventual escape. When Erik eluded the dutiful lawmen and vicious mobs all those weeks ago, he took with him absolutely nothing – it was only through sheer luck that he found the abandoned house, and Madame Giry's dedication and generosity that he had what few possessions she could find returned to him. To gather them for the journey was a simple task – they hardly filled a satchel and a traveling case. It was making the house itself appear uninhabited and quite untouched as he had found it that occupied the remaining hours of daylight. It seemed wise to make Erik's presence there entirely forgotten; although many thought him long-gone, it seemed prudent to lower suspicions as much as humanly possible.

Every effort and resource to our avail that would make it as though he hadn't truly escaped was prudent. Some weeks ago, Madame Giry made a point to start up old rumors among those involved in the disaster at the opera; with thoughts of The Phantom of the Opera possibly still at large and very nearby, the people of the city reveled once more in the chase, the prospect that they would join forces yet again to take him down once and for all. When interest in the case was at its highest point, Madame Giry then imagined and composed a story to tantalize the press – somehow, the masked madman had met his end; rest assured it was certainly him, the article insisted. The ordeal was over, there was no longer a need to look over one's shoulder in search of him. The succinct article seemed to keep those involved quite appeased, and little else was said about Erik beyond that point.

I was expecting the article, of course, but the headline _The Phantom is Dead_ still left a pang of unease in my heart, only worsened by the fact that people were truly delighted at the prospect of Erik's demise – a fate that I myself sought to prevent. To keep him from leaving this earth by his or anyone else's hand had been my utmost priority once I had been made aware of the anguish he fought against, and the reminder – however intentionally false – that he very nearly was lost to me was upsetting indeed. But I refused to let their misplaced merriment cause me unnecessary pain; some hearts could not be changed. In the end, faking Erik's death was a necessity, and a simple enough plan to execute – doing so ensured us the safest and easiest passage away from France and from our demons. It was our chance to start anew, and while how we would do so remained to be unseen aside from the very basic of plans, once we made the decision to go on together we knew we could conquer more than we once thought ourselves capable.

~~oOo~~

From within the house we watched the sunset with great anticipation; the hours ticked away to our departure, we only had to be patient until then. It was well past midnight when we chose to close up the house for good and make our way back to Madame Giry's apartment. Our stay there wouldn't be a long affair, only long enough to prepare for our trip to England. With a single candle, Erik walked around the house slowly, ensuring that everything was in its place and that any trace of us was long-gone.

"Are you ready to leave it behind?" I asked when he paused before the fireplace, now dark and devoid of ashes.

"If you're asking if I'll miss this house, I won't," he said seriously, then smiled, "Any enjoyment I felt here was with you. Until you arrived, it was miserable being alone all the way out here, and I fell to some of my lowest points. I was a lowly, drunken, angry person. I knew that man here, and I don't want to be him again. I'm ready to move on."

"Are you afraid?"

"Are you?"

"It's rude to answer a question with another question, Erik."

He sighed, "Fear is not necessarily the right word. I don't feel fear at this, I feel apprehension. I was never expecting to have to leave the opera house. To have to start over again is admittedly daunting."

"We'll be together. In the end, that's what matters the most."

"That's what makes this tolerable. It's right, it's what we fought for," he paused, "You never answered me. Are you afraid?"

"Not anymore. Where I once feared being with you, of having to leave and not know what to expect, that fear is gone," I responded honestly, "I'm no longer afraid of life."

He nodded, but gave no other response, for truly there was no more to say. Our deepening understanding of one another helped guide us through integral aspects of our shared being without feeling compelled to question each other's motives; no more pretense, no more blind fear. We were better off for our struggles. He held me for a moment before holding out his hand, beckoning me forward toward the front door and signifying that our departure was now at hand. He blew out the candle and plunged us into darkness. We walked determinedly out into the frigid, snowy night, our horses waiting for us, and as Erik closed the front door I realized it would be the last time he did so. It was final – it was time to move on.

Upon setting off, we had an easy ride. We allowed the horses to walk slowly – not wanting to push them unnecessarily and having little reason to do so regardless – and the steady pace was enjoyable. The moonlight cast a glow upon the landscape, all open space once the forest beyond thinned out, and while Erik worried about our dark figures against the starkly bright background, he admitted that it was far easier to see ahead of us, making the trip that much safer in terms of quick navigation. The air was cold around us, despite our winter coats, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. On the contrary, it made my senses come alive; I enjoyed the feeling of excitement that hung in the air around us. We talked easily, going over plans once more and reveling in our togetherness, knowing that ultimately we no longer had reason to fear separation by our own hands – our dedication to each other no longer remained unspoken, we had finally said everything we needed to in the time since our reunion.

He led the way, staying several steps ahead of me and looking back every so often to ensure my safety. He smiled at me each time he met my gaze; the gesture reminded me, not for the first time, that my decision to want us together stemmed in part from my absolute adoration for him and the smile that finally reached his eyes. What he felt for me was genuine, never would I doubt that, and I felt grateful in those moments that I had finally made the decision to return to him despite the tragedies we shared. There was a long, comfortable silence at length, interrupted only by the sounds of nature around us. It was the picture of serenity.

Without warning, that peace was shattered by a loud _crack_ ringing through the air. Erik froze, held his hand out to halt my progress, and shifted his gaze in warring confusion and alarm. It wasn't until the second echoing sound came crashing through the darkness that we realized we were hearing gunshots. Everything happened very quickly, then.

"Where is that coming from?" Erik asked himself in a low voice.

He marched his horse slightly forward, urgently commanding me to remain in place. His head whipped around quickly as more shots rang out in the distance. The cluster of trees beyond our position seemed to be the source of the sound, but the reason for the disturbance remained a mystery.

Another shot split the air as Erik made the motion to turn back toward me. Before I fully comprehended what was happening, he cried out abruptly.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I knew immediately that I had been shot; the pain ripped through me so forcefully that I thought my body would shatter then and there – I was barely able to keep my horse from rearing in panic in my own agonized bewilderment. But while I was aware of the singular fact that I was shot, everything else came to my consciousness in a haze of chaos. Initially, I couldn't understand why there was suddenly a bullet in me, nor from where it came. I was clearly its target, but if a pursuer truly sought me I could not comprehend why. I made a mighty effort to collect my thoughts, distantly understanding that if I didn't, the outcome would be dire – whatever event was unfolding, I had to somehow bring us back to safety. Realizing this, I was able to pull myself back to solid reality. It was my right shoulder that was injured – I put my hand to it both to staunch the bleeding and to feebly attempt to lessen the pain. I succeeded in neither endeavor. I swore under my breath and continued my attempt to compose myself before realizing that Christine had been calling out to me.

"Erik, where are you hurt?"

I gestured to my shoulder before continuing, "I don't know who's out there. I don't understand this, no one knows we're here."

"You don't think it's the police, do you?"

"I'm supposed to be dead. There's no reason _anyone_ should be after us."

"Could it have been an accident? A hunter or – "

"Why would anyone be out here this late?"

Another shot rang out in the distance, but I could not trace its exact origin. The forest was a large, pitch-black expanse of land with ample hiding places – anyone could be just beyond its borders and still go undetected. I saw no lanterns, no sign whatsoever that anyone was about, but I felt a deep dread at our situation. I began to realize that our carefully-executed hoax might not have worked after all. If anyone had even the slightest inkling that I was still alive and in hiding, surely they would seek me out in an attempt to capture me and bring me to justice, or worse. It was only because I turned away at the last moment that I wasn't shot in the heart, and I wasn't so naïve as to think that our being fired at was a coincidence. I looked at Christine and made my decision.

"You have to leave," I said gravely.

"What? No, I'm not leaving you here alone, you're hurt."

"It's not bad," I said with forced confidence, not knowing exactly the extent of my injury, "You have to go – "

"Erik, I won't – "

"– Listen to me," I snapped, feeling a panic and a desperate need to get through to her as quickly as possible, but softening my voice I continued, "I don't know what's going on, but if we're discovered, if it turns out that it is police or mobs or God knows who else coming for us, and if you're recognized with me, they won't be merciful with you. They'll see you as an accomplice. I won't let you be hurt because of me. You have to leave me here."

"I'll go back to the house," she said distantly, seemingly not wanting to accept my reasoning and remain as near to me as she could, "It's closer to here than Madame's."

"You can't, it's too isolated. If anything happens to me and they find you, you'll be cornered. Continue on to Paris, go as fast as you can."

"And then what, exactly?"

"Wait for me. Just wait. And if I cannot come back to you tonight, don't seek me out until the morning," another shot rang out, closer this time, and we both flinched, "I won't have you out here in the dark alone."

"I don't like this," she said, her voice shaking.

"Neither do I," I shook my head as I took the satchel from around my shoulders, wincing as the motion aggravated my injury, and handed it to her. From the holster around my chest, I took the gun and placed it in her hesitant hands, "Take this."

She gasped, "You can't be out here unarmed."

"If I _am_ caught and I'm found with it, the implications will be much worse. I don't want a confrontation, I just need to throw them off, ensure that no one can follow us from this point. And I don't want you without protection while I do it."

"Erik – "

"Go now, please."

She looked at me with terror in her eyes, but she had no arguments left. She turned her horse away from me and bolted. I hated to see her go, hated to take the choice from her, but under the circumstances it was a matter of safety, not pride.

I had been truthful with Christine – I didn't plan to take down my attacker by hand; I needed to lure them out of hiding and distract them. I wanted to give her the time to put as much distance as possible between herself and the present danger. From there, all I had to do was keep them distracted and hope I was fortunate enough not to become the final resting place for more bullets. It would be a feat, but it was all I could do. If I succeeded, I could escape without being followed, our destination remaining a secret. I knew I had to be fast, to think sharply, but I suddenly realized with a start that I was losing more blood than I had first assumed, and quickly. I felt cold, the pain hanging on to me with a dull, persistent ache. I tried to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. The faster I could leave, the better.

I steered my horse back the direction from which we came, faced the trees, and called out, "Come to me, you cowards! Face me!"

My antagonizing worked; from a distance, I was finally able to see the glow of a lantern bobbing in my direction. I held my ground, remaining conscious of my surroundings and keeping my mind keen to any and every possible means of escape and to every action of the attacker; if he so much as _appeared_ to be brandishing his weapon, I would be a step ahead, of that I was determined. I steeled myself. The figure steadily drew closer – a lone man on horseback came barreling toward me. When finally we came face to face, I was startled to realize that I knew him.

"Christ, Vito?"

Flashes of memory brought me back to my adolescence – the gypsy camp, the traveling fair, my shaking and broken form on display for mockery and abuse. I remembered the cage, every ounce of pain I endured. I recalled the agony of repeatedly fractured ribs, fingers, wrists, the burning slashes from knives and whips. The gypsies valued life fueled by family bonds, tradition, and the power of money – they were of a lively culture dependent upon community, but they saw me as less than human, an animal not worthy of their respect or camaraderie. They sought to maim and torture me, to beat me into submission and to keep me ever-aware of their fear and hatred of me. I saw my captors, sneering and shouting obscenities to my countenance, cursing my very existence and yet marveling at their good fortune at finding and displaying me as something evil and fearsome – further warping my mind, distancing me from society, and succeeding in increasing my loathing for the world around me.

A sign in blood-red lettering danced before my thoughts, _The Devil's Child_.

Javert was my keeper, and through the years of my captivity, he made entirely sure that I suffered every moment. Often he would brutally attack me, beat me within an inch of my life, but never had he dealt the final blow. He knew exactly what he was doing – to kill me would have been a mercy, and Javert was far from benevolent. His soul reeked of evil; some of my worst suffering was at his hands alone, and he was determined to have Vito –his only son and the pride of his life – follow in his footsteps. When after years of torture I finally learned to play his game, to protect myself as best as I could, I gained the upper hand. Only when his guard finally came down in my presence was I able to escape. I was fifteen years old, and I killed Javert without a second thought. But I was unable to take out Vito as well, and had no choice but to flee before he could avenge his father. When Madame Giry, so young then, witnessed the aftermath of my crime, she realized the necessity for it and helped me escape for good.

For so many years I thought that life was behind me – actively sought to put it out of mind by creating a kingdom of all that I saw as beautiful far below the Opera Populaire. To see the son of the man responsible for some of the most dehumanizing years of my life was an absolute shock.

"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, trying to keep my voice even despite my pain, "Why are you here?"

He raised his gun to my head, and before I could make an escape, he made to pull the trigger. When nothing happened, he lowered the weapon with a flourish and said, "I've no more bullets."

I cursed myself then for leaving myself unarmed; had I known then that it was but one man that pursued me, a man that had himself become defenseless, I wouldn't have relinquished the gun. I could have blown him away and have been done with it. But a distant thought soon occurred to me that if somehow I failed in my efforts, Vito might very well have gone after Christine, and I knew she needed the protection more than I would have under those circumstances. Reminding myself of that much was just barely enough to keep me from actually screaming in frustration at my foolish snap-decision.

" _What_ are you doing here, Vito?"

"I didn't believe what the papers were saying about your death. I was right."

"Well congratulations, you've found me," I sneered, "But how? Why after all these years did you have to choose to track me down?"

"You went into hiding the night you _murdered_ my father – "

"– Spare me the dramatics. He deserved it, and I certainly wasn't hiding for guilt. I did the world a favor."

" _You_ are the one deserving of that fate. I couldn't find you when that girl helped you escape the camp, but when you snapped, when you burnt down the opera house, I knew I could find you again. I joined the mobs, kept myself up on every rumor of your whereabouts. I want you dead."

I held out my gloved and bloody hand for him to see, "It appears you missed your mark. And you seem to have come out here wholly unprepared. Running out of bullets, that's _laughable_. If you came out here to kill me, you obviously weren't smart enough to think it through."

He struck out at me, but I flinched away before his fist could connect to my jaw. He was clearly growing more agitated by the second, and eager to be done with his task. I was aware of how imperative it was that I stay atop my horse; if I fell, there was little chance of me quickly and successfully clambering back up into the saddle – my worsening injury would make sure of that – and I knew there would be no way I could escape him on foot when the time came. I had to keep him distracted without further setting off his temper; I could not have him trying to attack me again, I had to work my way out of the situation. _Keep him talking_ , my instincts whispered insistently, and I obliged. I knew buying myself that much more time would very well be what saved me.

"Who was the girl? The one you just parted from." he demanded once he regained his composure.

"No one," I said quickly, "Not someone I know. She was lost and afraid, I only meant to help her regain her bearings."

"You lie. I believe I've seen her out here before."

I blanched at that, "Just how often _have_ you been out here, then?"

"Often enough to know that you've been out to see her as well, somewhere in Paris. Just the other night, in fact."

"If you saw me that night, why didn't you come after me?" I asked, desperate to evade the subject of Christine's connection to me at all costs, "You had plenty of opportunities."

"You're hiding something. I knew it. I had a feeling she meant something to you," he paused and gazed at me in intent consideration, "I want the girl."

"I told you, I don't know the woman you saw with me tonight," I nearly shouted, "She has nothing to do with this."

"She's your lover."

"Enough of this."

"Ah, now I understand. That _was_ Christine Daae that you sent on ahead. Don't think I don't know what's been said around Paris. She is important to you."

"Of what importance is she to _you_?" I demanded, dreading the answer but knowing the information might be necessary to protect Christine.

"Would it pain you if she were hurt?"

My heart pounded and I narrowed my eyes, "You will leave her out of it. This is obviously between me and you."

"You care for her, she's clearly an important figure in your life. My father was an important figure in mine. And you took him from me."

"An eye for an eye," I murmured, then looked at him squarely, "You _will not_ go near her."

"If it makes you suffer, then yes, I will."

He made to spook my horse, an action that would surely cause the animal to rear and for me to lose my balance. I evaded the action quickly, only to become suddenly aware of my heartbeat growing steadily quicker and more erratic. Blood loss and absolute terror for Christine and my own immediate wellbeing were beginning to cloud my thoughts. I couldn't keep Vito occupied any longer, not when he was ready to strike and carry on with his violent endeavor; I knew that if I continued to try, buying Christine still more time in the process, I might very well bleed to death out there. Everything we had fought for would have been for nothing. If I gave chase, I ran the risk of being captured. He could no longer gun me down, but he could easily incapacitate me as I continued to grow weaker. I was running out of options, and he was growing still more agitated the longer I stalled. He was heartless and cunning, and I needed to make my final move wisely.

Keeping him talking provided me both the knowledge of what I must do and the distraction for him that I needed to unquestionably end the exchange. He didn't see the subtle movements I made, the calculating stare I leveled at him while determining just the right moment to set in motion my own strike against him.

From my belt, I pulled out a riding crop and held it high above me. For but a fleeting second, Vito looked at me with an expression of mixed fear and taunting – it was as if he dared me to be foolish enough to cross him. Old habits die hard; he was once in a position of power over me, and that night he still felt that the cards were in his favor even after all the years that separated our lives. But he wasn't expecting me to have let go of my fears long before then. With the last bit of strength I could spare, I brought the crop down hard, first on his arms and face, stunning him to the point of complete immobility, and as he looked upon me in complete shock, I struck again.

With each blow I managed to knock him off balance even further as he frantically tried to fight me off and regain control of the situation, until finally I hit him hard enough to take his consciousness from him completely. As he fell from his mount, I turned the crop to the animal itself, guilty at having to cause it unnecessary pain but knowing that when Vito awoke, the horse had to be long-gone if I had any chance of a clear escape. There had to be no question of him catching up to me.

I turned my own horse around, returning to the trail that would lead into the city, and kicked him sharply enough to cause him to bolt. I held on as tightly as I was able. My breath came in sharp, painful gasps and I could feel the blood on my arm, hot and alarmingly profuse in amount. The pain was worse than ever, my exertion proving to be far too much for the injury. I could barely hold the reins, but forced the effort, knowing I had to push my horse to run as fast as he was capable. I still had many miles left before reaching even the outskirts of Paris, and time was not in my favor. Christine and I were so close to starting our life together, and such an unexpected attempt at my life was unappreciated, to say the least. I wasn't going to die out there simply because the demons of my past wouldn't rest. It was this determination that propelled me toward the city with a stubborn resolution to fight.

The city that I had once been so desperate to leave was now my only means of rescue. Despite myself, I actually laughed at the irony.

.

.

 **Author's Note** : _Well, fuck. Please don't hurt me. I can fix this, I CAN FIX THIS!_


	13. Heaven Help Us

**Author's Note:** _Hello again! I haven't had any reviews for the last chapter, so I hope that this is still going in a good direction for y'all. But I have seen the traffic graph and I know y'all are out there checking this out, and for that I am most appreciative. Your continued support means a lot to me as a writer. Well, anywhoodles, I don't have much else to say beyond my gratitude, so I'll run right into the chapter title explanation. This one is from the My Chemical Romance song of the same name, and I once again suggest y'all checking out a lyric video to this song, it's got an eerie kind of vibe, and the lyrics are so, "I fucked up in the past, here's the deal on how it's messing with us now," Erik-esque angst that I love. Welp, all that said, I'll leave y'all to it, such fluffy angst I've got here for this one. :) R &R and enjoy! _

Chapter 13 – Heaven Help Us

Christine

The front window could have been a portrait in a gallery; beyond the glass, the street shone in a picturesque scene of tranquility – not a soul was about that time of night, not a light illuminated the windows of the little neighborhood. The snow glowed as brightly in the city as it had on the lonely paths and sprawling meadows of the country from which I fled. The scene before me was indeed beautiful, but once again I found that it didn't match my inner-turmoil – the serenity was out of place. I hadn't wanted to leave Erik, but I could not deny his reasoning as I had wanted to on so many other matters. As I made my escape through the moonlight, I couldn't help but look back constantly in the hopes that I could catch the first glimpses of him advancing upon me. When I made it to Madame Giry's front door entirely alone, I broke into tears without caring about causing Madame and Meg an unnecessary shock at my display; there would be plenty of time to explain once I was inside, I knew, and allowing myself to get lost in my grief was a luxury I felt that I had earned by that point. I gave them every last detail of what had happened to us out there, but even that much was not enough to alleviate the confusion for any of us. Even in our caution, no one had expected the events which unfolded.

"I shouldn't have left him."

I lost track of how many times I said that since arriving at Madame Giry's apartment that night, wringing my hands and sighing miserably in a hopeless attempt to calm myself even slightly, but each time the thought passed my lips I only felt more terror and dread. Beyond that, the utter shock of what happened made me feel restless and confused, my thoughts rushed and disjointed. It didn't seem to me that our attack had happened at all, that Erik had been left injured and out unaided in the dark, let alone that such a thing was part of the same evening that we had so happily awaited and prepared for our new lives together. Even with the apprehension that accompanied the prospect of the unknown, we were ready to go on. That anything could have happened to hinder that progress was jarring. Not knowing where Erik was or how severely he was injured only served to increase my fright.

"Come away from the window, girls," Madame Giry gently prompted Meg and I from our dutiful posts, "You're only scaring yourselves more."

"How can I not be scared, Madame? Not watching out for him won't help," I fretted, not caring if I appeared petulant in that moment, "Erik is out there hurt, and I've no idea what will happen next. What if – "

"Be calm, child," Madame Giry prompted insistently, her tone necessitated by my increasing panic, "We have to wait. That is all there is to it. We must wait and see what's in store and go on from there," she took a deep breath and continued, as if to herself, "I'm sure he'll come back."

I sighed but said no more – I knew she was right, and while her words did nothing to calm my nerves and racing thoughts, I obliged and took a seat on the divan. Meg soon followed and grasped my hand as her eyes flickered often to the window. While neither of us could truly see outside from that vantage point, we continued our vigil in a deafening silence. Had I been completely conscious of anything else but Erik's whereabouts, I would have hugged Meg for her empathy and concern – despite everything Erik had put her and her mother through during the worst moments of his life, she was still able to see past the darkness and hope for his return that night as urgently as I had. We sat in that tense, worried silence for quite some time. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the moments of dread, its hands moving slowly onward and allowing each passing second to remind me that their progress only meant that Erik still hadn't returned. Few times in my life had I ever felt such fear, and it was becoming more and more difficult to grasp onto hope.

It seemed as though several lifetimes had passed before we finally were startled from our respective thoughts by a knock at the door – a familiar pattern that I knew was the shared message between Madame Giry and Erik, a pattern that meant it was only one or the other of them calling. I practically jumped from the divan, but my progress was halted by Madame's raised hand; even though the knocking was coded, she would still not take any risks and meant to grant entry herself to protect Meg and I. But when the door opened and a tall silhouette emerged from the starkly bright moonlit street, I ran forward immediately, recognizing at once the man I longed to see standing before us.

Erik walked in slowly, and I knew his pace wasn't intentional; his footsteps were heavy and he seemed to struggle to keep from swaying on the spot, his breaths coming in sharp, struggling intervals as he held tightly to his injury. It was a terrible shock to see him in that state, despite having witnessed the attack myself, but my relief overshadowed my fear for the moment. When our eyes met, it was apparent that he shared my relief – against all odds, he made it back to me once again, this time for vastly different reasons, and we had more than enough reason to be grateful. I moved toward him, wanting to leap into his embrace and never let go, but I hesitated for fear of causing him pain at the motion. He didn't give me a chance to question to what capacity he could move; before I knew it he had his uninjured arm wrapped tightly around me, moving carefully in order to keep his blood-soaked hand away from me, and I held him with as much fervor.

"Thank God you're here," I said through my tears.

He only nodded in response, but held fast to me with continued intensity. We could not relish in our reunion for long; Madame Giry was ushering him toward her study before any more could be said. Erik's injury required immediate attention; we knew without having to speak the truth that we would discuss the details of what happened after Erik and I parted later. Whatever happened to him out there would need to be known eventually, but in the meantime it was obvious that he was struggling even more to remain standing, that his blood loss had reached an alarming amount. Without help, it was clear that even making it as far as he had – after evading our attackers and making the long and risky journey back to safety – would have been for nothing.

Madame lit lamps in her work area quickly and methodically, working with a slow but steady determination. Her calmness commanded the same from Meg and I; any panic in the moment could very well lead to a disastrous outcome, and we all needed to keep our presence of mind for as long as we were required. Madame gestured for Erik to sit in the chair by her desk, informing him that she would need to remove the bullet and treat his wound from there. He grimaced at the prospect but made no comment of fear or protest. Softly yet sternly, she barked orders to us all – Meg was to retrieve whiskey from the cupboard in the small kitchen beyond, Erik was to remove his coat and shirt, I was to help Erik maintain consciousness, even if force was required. Erik, however, was having great difficulty with the buttons of his garments, his hands trembling too much to keep a hold on the small objects and his injured arm proving to be too painful to move with any dexterity; I swooped in to help without thinking twice.

"I don't know that I approve," Madame Giry fussed at my action, deeming my assistance to Erik's partial nudity inappropriate despite the circumstances.

"I haven't a choice at the moment," Erik rolled his eyes and then gave me a brief, wicked grin; I was sure he was remembering the last time I was in that position, and I couldn't help but let a smirk escape in return.

I didn't have much time to enjoy our light-hearted exchange. When Erik shouldered his way out of his winter coat, wincing sharply at the additional pain the movement caused, I was startled to see the evidence of his injury, his white shirt absolutely drenched in blood. I was suddenly reminded of a thought that passed through my mind in the days before I broke off my engagement to Raoul and returned to Erik, determined to see him again, if only briefly. Flashes of broken rose petals in the snow danced before my mind's eye, the troubling resemblance to blood upon the ground. I had thought to myself how those delicate petals might very well have been drops of blood from Erik's own heart, a result of his agony at my having torn it from his chest in my hasty abandonment. Those thoughts had only been the result of my guilt; the rose petals were just that, and no blood had truly been shed upon that rooftop then. But looking upon Erik in that dimly-lit study, pale and shuddering and bleeding before us, I could not help but shiver at the contrast. The blood was real, his injury true and severe; I couldn't stand the thought of him in pain and suffering.

He looked up at me when he became aware of my shaking, and although it was clear that he continued to fight unconsciousness, seeing his gaze intently and comfortingly meeting my own was enough to help me remain in control of myself. I've never been a truly squeamish woman, despite my otherwise timid personality, and I had to remind myself of that – I had to maintain my composure and put my fear out of mind, for it would do nothing to help the situation and I knew I was stronger than that. As I continued to assist Madame and Erik, Meg returned with the requested items; pouring the amber liquid into a glass, she handed it to Erik with the stern instructions to down the drink quickly.

"I'm not a whiskey man, you know," he said in an attempted jesting tone.

"It's for the pain," Meg insisted.

"Is this a good idea?" he asked in a low voice.

"You'll need it," Madame Giry responded, "I promise you that this won't be an enjoyable experience."

He quirked his eyebrows in acquiescence, held the glass high in a mock-toast, and took in the alcohol. He made no secret of the drink burning his throat, but accepted when Meg poured more into the glass, muttering that he supposed he was better off drunk than in absolute pain. His continued attempt at humor to detract from the situation would only last so long. At length, Madame began to focus all of her efforts at tending to the gunshot wound, working swiftly with an expertise that was nothing short of impressive, all the while Erik concentrated on staying calm yet alert. It wasn't long before she reached the bullet, but in that moment she hesitated slightly.

"This is the worst part," she warned.

"Just do it," he said through gritted teeth; the procedure up until then had been painful, but that next step was sure to be agony.

He didn't cry out when the bullet was taken from his flesh, but his grip on my hand tightened enough to indicate to me that he had suffered greatly in the action. Madame Giry continued to work in silence as I murmured to Erik and squeezed his hand at intervals to keep his attention. The action initially worked in keeping him upright and responsive. It wasn't until Erik began to lose focus on me and allow his head to loll alarmingly to one side that there was a need to speak up sharply.

"Are you still with us, Erik?" Madame demanded.

He only nodded, but made a more conscious effort to keep his head up and his eyes open and focused. I spoke softly to him, commanding attention with the knowledge that keeping him awake was imperative while bearing in mind that a gentle tone would prevent him from panicking. At last, Madame Giry announced that she was finished – patting Erik's good shoulder gently and assuring that he had made it through the worst of the ordeal – and requested Meg's help at preparing proper bandaging and fashioning a sling. Erik and I were left alone for a time; he leaned his head heavily against the back of the chair and looked at me with weary eyes as I pulled another chair beside his to be able to sit as closely as possible to him. I held his hand, only then becoming entirely aware of how cold he was, of how he still trembled despite his obvious efforts to control the sporadic movement of his body.

"Another scar from Vito," he mused after looking at his shoulder.

"From what?"

"Whom, actually. I know the man who shot me."

I gasped, "Are you serious? From where, the opera house?"

"No, he was present in my life long before my time there. Vito was my keeper's son in the gypsy camp. His father was the one that kept me on display and tortured me on the side. I'll spare you the details, but you should know that I killed him to escape."

"Oh, God."

"Please understand," he said in a rushed, concerned tone as I felt myself grow pale at his confession, "it wasn't something I took lightly. It was kill or be killed, that's what it came down to if I had any hope of winning my freedom. I had to get out of there. But Vito sought to end me because of it. He was just as evil as his father, if not worse. He still is. When he lost track of me back then, when Madame Giry helped me find the chapel, he swore revenge, waited more than a decade for it. He caught up to me again tonight. It seems he's been tracking me since the fire."

"He wanted to kill you," I said in a low, shaking voice.

"I shouldn't have been so careless," he shook his head woefully, "I practically led him right to us. He saw me going back to Paris the other night."

"I _knew_ I shouldn't have left you alone. I had your weapon the whole time, and you almost died out there. You shouldn't have been alone."

"It was _favorable_ that you went on ahead, trust me. He has an interest in you now, too. He means to take from me that which is most important. He wants me to suffer as he had, and he knows any harm that befalls you will destroy me. I fear what he may do if he ever finds you. I'm not letting that happen, I won't let him exact his revenge on either of us. Had you stayed I'm not sure what the outcome would have been. Don't feel guilty."

I took in his words and felt utter dread at the impact of the new and dangerous development, "What do we do now?"

"I don't know yet, this changes our situation. We will have to be far more careful, rethink how we will leave here."

"Then we'll approach that topic later, once we've settled a bit," I said determinedly, then sighed, "I can't believe this happened."

"I'm sorry," he murmured sadly, "I'm so sorry about all of this, for frightening you all so badly, for Vito's involvement. I wasn't expecting it, I didn't know he would – "

"– No apologies, you've nothing to be sorry for," I said softly, smoothing his disheveled hair from his forehead in a gesture of comfort, "It's over now, and as I said, we'll talk about the rest in time."

"I just wish this hadn't come about," he sighed, composing himself once more, "Truly, I didn't want to put you through any of it," he laughed humorlessly, "Just more consequences of my aggression and foolishness," he looked up at me and winced when a sharp tremor moved his shoulder too quickly.

"My poor darling," I said softly in an attempt to temporarily distract him from his dark thoughts and the misfortune of the night, trying very hard to not let tears spring to my eyes once again, "How do you feel now?"

He waved his hand carelessly, "Just this side of drunk, at the moment."

"You were very brave."

"Certainly I was not. I simply didn't want to further wound my pride by whimpering and begging for mercy," he gestured toward his now-stitched wound, "Facing this whole mess was bad enough."

"I was so afraid for you tonight."

"I know," he said in a weak voice, just barely above a whisper, "But you heard Madame. Everything is alright now."

I sighed, "You were so close to bleeding to death."

"Imagine that, The Phantom himself felled by a bloody shot to the arm," he scoffed, "How painfully anti-climactic."

"Erik, be serious. You cannot possibly take this lightly even for a moment. I was terrified, we all were. I thought you were captured, that you might have been killed. I thought you might still die here, after fighting to come back."

"I'm sorry. Know that I do realize the gravity of this," he paused and considered, "It all could have very well ended out there tonight. Had I not turned when I did, that bullet would have been in my chest and that would have been my last moment. I understand that, and it scared me as much as it did you. But I'm here now, put all the rest out of mind," he stroked my cheek, "I'm right here."

"I'm so thankful that you are," I smiled wanly at him and squeezed his hand gently before I made to stand once more, suddenly feeling restless and overwhelmed, and whispered in an unsteady voice, "I should help Madame tidy up," indicating the shambled desk beside us.

He didn't give me the chance to move far from him before he reached out to me with an urgent, beckoning gesture.

"Don't go. Not yet," he asked, fear creeping into his voice.

He pulled me close and kissed me, holding my hands tightly as he did. I embraced him gently, mindful of his injury but remaining as near to him as I possibly could from my position. It was long before we parted, each of us desperately needing the contact, the reminder of Erik's survival. Only in those moments of connection did we completely realize how much we needed that reminder. I made a mighty effort not to let those very recent memories of Erik being shot pass through my thoughts, but with little success; the sight terrified me the moment it happened, and its image echoing through my mind left me feeling the same horror. It began as a disabling injury, but certainly not initially mortal – yet I knew how long it had taken him to evade his attacker, that time slipped from him and wouldn't remain on his side long. To see him stagger into the apartment, pale and cold and struggling to breathe, told me all that I needed to know about how fortunate we were. I had almost lost him that night; to have him back in my arms, weak and in pain but otherwise whole and safe, meant the world to me. I knew he was just as shaken, and I wanted us to remain in that moment as long as possible, reminding one another without words that we were together again at last.

Madame Giry reappeared, ready to continue her task, and cleared her throat to draw us from our shared reverie. I left them alone for a time, feeling again that I needed a moment to collect myself; so much had happened in one night, so many new questions unanswered and fears ignited, and I hardly knew how to begin contemplating what to do next. I bumped into Meg in the dim hallway, and immediately burst into the tears that I had been trying to keep at bay before realizing what was happening. She held me tightly, paying no mind to any other duties she might have been undertaking and comforting me with seriousness and sincerity that only made me cry harder; I was a wreck of emotions and knew I simply needed to give them an avenue from my heart.

"Everything is alright, dear, like Mama said," she whispered, stroking my back and holding fast to me as I gave myself to hopeless sobs, "Everything is alright, Erik is safe. He's here, he's safe. Everyone is right here."

I knew she was right, and in knowing that, I felt another moment of gratitude that utterly overcame me. I let that feeling further comfort me, holding onto it like an answered prayer and deciding then that fears and decisions and the vast unknown could wait for my attention. I knew I would regain my calmness reasonably quickly; for the time, I simply had to cry.

~~oOo~~

Erik muttered one protest after another in regards to the necessity of wearing a sling, adamantly insisting that he didn't need the fabric to support his arm regardless of what Madame Giry tried to say to the contrary. His efforts ultimately resulted in his yielding to her prodding, however, and shockingly quickly at that. Madame would not be beaten by any argument that impeded healing, and Erik eventually had to admit that he was simply too weary to fight her reasoning any longer – the effort in redressing alone proved to nearly be too much for him. The conversation would have been entirely amusing under any other circumstances, and while Meg and I witnessed the exchange with the occasional giggle at the battle of stubbornness, the reason for the fight occurring at all was certainly nothing to laugh about. Once Erik conceded, he allowed Madame Giry to assist him in shouldering his way into the material; he noted that it was a painful process, but granted that a degree of his overall pain was lifted at not having to hold his injured arm stiffly to his side. Once that part of the ordeal was through, Madame ushered him back into the main room of the apartment and onto the divan.

The journey from the study, despite the small size of the apartment, was enough to leave Erik weak from the effort. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes tightly; the shock of blood loss in combination with his weariness and slightly inebriated state left him defeated and exhausted, and I was surprised that he didn't succumb to sleep the moment he sat down. Madame Giry sent Meg to bed, insisting that I follow shortly after, but I was hesitant to leave Erik – not after only earlier that evening longing for his return and seeing him through the frightening and excruciating tending to his wounds.

"I'll let you stay up a little longer. But the both of you must rest soon. I daresay all of us have been through enough this evening to warrant sleeping on till spring," she fussed gently.

"Thank you," Erik said softly, only then opening his eyes to meet Madame's.

She reached out and took his hand in a gesture of comfort and motherly affection. What I witnessed then was an unexpected exchange between mother and son of the most untraditional sort – his unspoken yet tremendous gratitude, her fierce protectiveness for a man she had seen through his weakest moments since his youth. It was then that I realized that she was likely all Erik had ever known of family – of a doting mother – and even then her position in that capacity was limited. It was understandable that it would be difficult for him to let her be more involved in his life. While the outcome might have been different if he had, he was not raised to know or understand familial bonds. Even though I was orphaned young, I was still able to grasp at fond memories of my parents, could hold on to the love they gave me to carry me through the lonely years, and even in forgetting my happiness in my grief, I had still known what it meant to bask in the love of a parent, to trust that those bonds would transcend all barriers. Erik had never had that, not until Madame Giry happened upon him and felt sympathy for his plight. The only family he had ever known was in that apartment, the lot of us brought together by fortune and maintaining our bonds out of necessity and dedication. Madame held his hand only a moment, but spoke a thousand words silently in the contact.

"I'm happy to see you safe," she responded, "Now, try to rest."

When she left us alone once again, I helped Erik ease himself into lying down.

"I feel so weak. It bothers me," he muttered, seeming slightly agitated that he had been incapacitated and would require recovery before we could hope to move forward.

"I know. And that is why you need to calm yourself now, to sleep and get your strength back."

I sat beside him and smoothed his hair in a soothing, repetitive motion, knowing his worry and discomfort had to be put to rest if he had any chance of falling asleep. At length, his breathing became slow and steady, his eyes fluttering every so often with fatigue. He held my hand close to his chest, his heartbeat as rhythmic as the ticking of the clock whose noise filled the room with a lulling steadiness.

"I'll protect you," he suddenly whispered wearily, just between wakefulness and dozing, "Whatever happens from here, however we decide to continue on, just know that."

"I do, darling, I know. Hush now, I'll stay with you awhile."

He shivered despite the strong blaze from the fireplace and the blankets around him; I knew he had gotten through the worst of the night, and the tranquility of the room had done much to soothe the worst of my uneasiness, but I worried over him regardless. His hands were cold in mine, his face as pale as earlier, and I knew he would be in that state for some time. Despite what he said about keeping me from harm, it was I that felt incredibly protective over him. I knew that he felt that it was his duty to keep me safe at all costs, and it made my heart leap to be reminded that he held me that closely to his own, but I knew that night that I would do the same for him – I would protect him just as fiercely. What he gave to me, I would return. Knowing that we had a long and difficult journey ahead of us, vowing silently that night that we would always remain whole through our devotion and warm sheltering of one another made the path of the unknown less daunting.

However we decided to move on, we would be together – stronger for our challenges – and I knew that was truly all that mattered.


	14. The Banner You're Waving

**Author's Note:** _Hello again everyone! I'll start by saying how sorry I am for the long delay in posting - it certainly had not been my intention to wait so long to update. Unfortunately, some unforeseen issues came up and my focus shifted significantly, rendering me unable to write or post. Of the worst of the issues, my sister-in-law was diagnosed with breast cancer, something that was completely jarring for our family. She means a lot to me - she is an only child and essentially adopted me as her own sister from the time I was about fourteen and has been a huge supporter and influence in my life, so to see her afraid and sick is just devastating. The good news is that she was diagnosed early and stands a good chance of getting through this. My family, as ridiculously dysfunctional as we are, always comes together in times of crises, and we fully intend to see her through this and cheer her on as she kicks cancer's ass. But I figured that bears mentioning out of respect for her. Beyond that, it has simply been a stressful time recently, and while I worry about faltering general interest in this piece, I know that people out there are still reading it and enjoying it, and for that I am exceedingly grateful; I cannot express how much these kind reviews have meant to me, as writing is something I do purely for the love of doing so, and getting to share that dedication is a great privilege._

 _Well, anywhoodles, I'm done being all lovey-dovey, but know the sentiment stands. :D So, fun fact about this chapter - well, a couple of fun facts, actually. First, it was interesting to write about the physical side-effects of blood-loss, specifically because I was, some years ago, extremely anemic due to blood-loss as well, and let me tell you, I'm not even sure if I did the description of it justice here. It truly was a frozen hellhole, and I'm sorry for putting Erik through that shit. But at any rate, it was one of the times I could pull from personal experience for a phic, and that was definitely an interesting thing to approach. Second, the title is based on lyrics from the song "Half-Truism" by The Offspring, and I recommend y'all go check out a lyric video. Great song, to be sure. And funnily enough, when I wrote this chapter, it was so long that I had to split it up, and 14 remained untitled until I was several edits into it. My husband got on an Offspring kick just earlier this evening, and when this song came on, it struck me that it reminded me so much of our favorite stubborn masked man, especially in how he's reacting to his attack. Well, you'll see if you choose to check out the lyrics._

 _Okay, one last little tidbit before I shut the hell up and let you carry on. A guest reviewer expressed curiosity as to whether or not more chapters would follow 13, so I must apologize for making the ending to that one easy to assume that it was in fact the final installment. Rest assured, phriends, this piece has a long way to go before its conclusion. On my tentative outline I've got about 25 chapters at least, and I haven't quite made a solid lead-up to the ending, so yes, it's going to be a little while before this ends. And hopefully I won't take for-fucking-ever doing so. ;) Alrighty, I'll wrap this up. As always, please let me know if this is flowing well and to y'all's satisfaction as readers and phans. R &R and enjoy! _

Chapter 14 – The Banner You're Waving

Christine

I slept fitfully that night; each time I felt close to falling asleep, I was startled forcefully into wakefulness once more by flashes of memories from that evening. Worse than that, each time I truly drifted off to sleep, my dreams were plagued with images too horrible to comprehend – the idea that Erik hadn't survived the journey, hadn't escaped at all and was left defenseless and injured at the hands of a man that meant only to do him harm; I saw him not turn away in time, the bullet meant for his heart reaching its intended target, thrusting him bleeding and dying onto the snow as I watched helplessly, unable to move or think. If that scenario didn't capture my dreams, then the alternative was that even had he made it to safety, he didn't survive the night – we would rise in the morning to find him dead, his injuries too grave to overcome. Sleep was not kind to me that night; it took until nearly sunrise for me to fall, quite exhausted, into a light and dreamless slumber, but I was greatly in need of even that much after our long ordeal.

I had attempted, shortly after resigning to go to bed at length, to look in on Erik while he slept. Madame Giry, however, halted me in my tracks, insisting that I needed to rest as much as he did and that she would see to it that he was well in my absence. Hesitantly, I assented to her demand, reassured only by her promise that she would come get me should even the slightest disturbance occur in the night. And so with that in mind, I woke with a start when I heard her moving about the room that I shared with Meg, the first rays of sunshine forcing their way through an opening in the otherwise drawn curtains – I was sure that something was wrong, and was already gesturing to leave my side of the bed when she lightly pushed me back into my pillow.

"He's fine, child. I only came to look in on you two," she whispered.

"Has something happened, Mama?" Meg stirred.

"Nothing at all, it's only just morning. Go back to sleep, both of you. I want you two to sleep in today, you could surely use it."

She tucked the blankets around us as a doting mother would for her small children before leaving the room. The air was chilly beyond the bed, but I was otherwise comfortably warm in the nest of blankets that Madame was always sure to keep supplied. I could not say that I was entirely content, however; I wanted to see Erik, simply to put my thoughts at ease – Madame's assurances could not fend off the nightmares that overwhelmed my heart, and I had to see for myself that the man I love still held on to his life. I moved into the hallway gingerly and snuck out to the living room, although I was certain that Madame Giry had seen my progress and chose to feign ignorance to my moving about the apartment. Grateful that she let my disobedience pass, I made my way to the divan.

For all the fuss he raised over the inconvenience of the sling, Erik slept as soundly as he was able under the circumstances with it on; while his injured arm remained immobile, he had managed to wrap his free arm around the pillow in the night, and there it remained when I came to him. He appeared somewhat restless but otherwise remained asleep, and although I knew there would be pain when he awoke, I was reassured simply by the sight of him before me; had it not been for the sling and the vivid memories of the night before, I could have imagined he had simply fallen asleep on the spot, perhaps while drawing or writing late into the night – I could have convinced myself that all was well. Even in his pain, his body had lost the tension he carried almost constantly, his face freed of the worry and anger that more often than not plagued his countenance. I arranged the blankets more securely around him as Madame had done for Meg and I, and while I noted that he was still cold to the touch and startlingly pale, his breathing was even and strong, and I allowed myself a sigh of relief.

I knew that Erik was in good hands in Madame Giry's home – she was as protective of him as she was of Meg and I, no harm would befall a single one of us as far as she was concerned – but to see him that morning with my own eyes, still alive and safe, gave me the reassurance I needed to put my frightening memories and vivid nightmares safely away in the back of my mind. I could never forget what we had gone through, but I could more easily focus on what was ahead. I reminded myself that we hadn't lost anything truly – as close as we had come to defeat – and in bearing that in mind, I bent down again to kiss Erik on the forehead before I swept silently back into the bedroom.

Only then was I able to sleep peacefully.

~~oOo~~

When I completely awoke later that morning, I found myself quite alone in the small bedroom; I could faintly hear Madame Giry and Meg bustling about in the rooms beyond, their voices low but holding no ominous hints of disquietude. I took that as a good sign that Erik was still well. I pulled the curtains open completely, allowing the pale but steadfast winter sunlight to flood the air around me, and readied myself for the day in a haste. I was eager to be among familiar and comforting faces while keeping my hands busy whenever possible, and to look upon Erik once again.

The curtains of the living room window were still drawn shut, the fireplace radiating warmth despite its flames dying down into softly glowing embers, allowing him to sleep in near-complete darkness. Although, I was sure any stray rays of sunlight wouldn't make a difference on his slumber – I didn't doubt that he was still deeply asleep and would remain so for quite some time. I moved closer to him quietly, and while he stirred slightly when I lay a reassuring hand upon his forehead, he did not wake completely. As expected, he predominately slept the clock around. He woke only on few occasions, and even then he did not remain conscious for long. He was lucid enough to ensure to us that he was otherwise well, but he sat up with great effort and said little. When he made eye contact with me, his exhaustion was plainly evident, his ordeal taking a great toll on him, but the steadiness of his gaze brought me great comfort in spite of everything else. I knew he was frustrated by his inactivity, but he had neither the strength nor the opportunity to voice his complaints. He remained rather cold, and shivered as he slept, but otherwise complained of nothing and remained in his place.

I recounted Erik's tale of what had happened to him the night before, the details of his attack and why the man pursued us in the first place. Madame swore under her breath, vaguely remembering Vito himself but vividly recalling the conditions from which Erik fled as a youth. She shook her head at the tragedy of it all – that after all these years Erik was still haunted by events beyond his control. She understood the necessity of the means by which he won his freedom, and could not fault him for that act of desperation. I knew her sentiment well – he was honest when he told me why he had to kill his tormentor, and I balked at the idea that such an act still didn't truly free him of his demons. Yet there wasn't much to be done then; we simply had to take new revelations in stride, come what may. Further discussion became nonexistent about the reality of our circumstances; whatever was in store for our future remained to be unseen and unconsidered.

From that point, Madame Giry, Meg, and I spent the day more or less uneventfully, attempting to use the illusion of normalcy to keep our collective fears and unease at bay; as we tended to various household necessities, the priority was to see to Erik's recovery. If we worried about anything beyond that, we'd surely drive ourselves mad trying to comprehend every possible scenario, every unknown factor that lie ahead as if in complete darkness. It was best to prioritize immediate concerns and keep our consciousness strictly in the moment. Yet bearing this in mind, I remained apprehensive, feeling as though some dark and foreboding thing loomed just beyond our shelter; any misstep I might have made surely would draw it back to us, and if I wasn't careful we'd all be undone. It was an absurd notion, to fear imaginary monsters as if the mere thought of them could make them appear, but my rattled nerves wouldn't allow me much reprieve from my active imagination. As long as Erik slept, I would worry silently, even unconsciously at times.

I needed to see him standing tall and strong to quell my fears, and more so to hear his voice again, for I knew that within his mind were the words that would comfort me. Although those words remained unknown, I knew that he alone held the key to my peace of mind.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I never knew such violent coldness until the blood was nearly drained entirely from my body; even in the gypsy camp, traveling long distances in the dead of winter with little else than the clothes on my back to protect me from biting winds and bitter cold, I didn't know truly what the sensation of ice running through my veins felt like until the night Vito shot me. Lying on Madame Giry's divan, huddled into myself to the best of my capacity, I shivered violently and woke often in the night thinking that I was actively freezing to death. In my delirious and half-drunken state, I was convinced that I might still die yet simply because the warmth of flames, blankets, and Christine's hand upon my brow would not be strong enough to penetrate the ice that sealed me in that frozen nightmare. Rationally, I knew blood-loss was the culprit to my extreme discomfort, but no reasoning could reach my clouded mind, and I spent the first night in Madame's home physically exhausted and internally terrified.

I was immensely grateful when morning came and, although I still held a chill that only I could feel in a household blessed with warmth, I was no worse for the wear and was granted a small reprieve from my suffering. I awoke shivering, hung-over, and weary, but less violently so on all accounts. Still, I could not bring myself to stay awake long, and the day following our attack was spent in a haze of the ladies of the apartment coaxing me out of my stupor if only to drink water and somehow assure them that I was maintaining a reasonable modicum of consciousness. To pull myself upright was exhausting, and speaking was out of the question, but I made a mighty effort above all else to look into Christine's eyes; aspects of the previous night were hazy, but I distinctly remembered promising her my unwavering dedication and protection, and I meant to convey that to her even in my weakness.

It was in remembering that promise that I felt more tangible motivation to break through the fog of pain and exhaustion and return to face the reality of our unexpectedly changed situation.

On the second day, I awoke to the rhythmic and steady rapping of rain against the window, although the sound of the weather was not what drew me from my slumber. I was wholly aware from the start of how badly shaken I was by the attack – I hadn't expected it at all in the first place, let alone for our pursuer to be someone so far removed from my present life that I had long ago put his existence out of mind. I was startled, however, to realize just how deeply the incident affected me. Where during the first hours of recovery I slept through the time in an otherwise dreamless state, as time went by and my mind began working at full capacity once again, I grew increasingly more restless and anxious at the memories of nearly being gunned down in cold blood. When I woke with a sharp gasp alone, shivering, and enveloped in the pale gray shimmer of an early dawn rainstorm, it was because of a nightmare that felt too real to be forgotten easily. Images swirled in my mind of the chaos and violence I endured for so long, I heard screams that threatened to deafen me – all at the hands of Vito.

I slowly began to realize that an old fear of him was creeping into my heart; that realization angered me beyond comprehension. For too long in my youth I fought to overcome the power he held over me. That he had undone the years of building resolve and courage left me feeling a stubborn rage deeply within myself that I could not keep quiet. Christine and I had come so far to finally be together; I wasn't going to let anything or anyone stand in our way when we were so close to freedom. I made up my mind then; I needed to go after Vito, to put an end to the chase once and for all. Whatever I had to do to keep him away, I would do – whether I had to intimidate him into submission or go as far as killing him myself didn't matter. I would not stand aside and wait for another encounter, either by chance or by his own doing – I knew the latter was the most likely, that he was as eager as I was to put an end to our long-coming standoff, and for far different, more malevolent reasons than my own.

Raindrops hammered against the window with an increasing intensity, driven on by a sudden and forceful wind that threatened to shake the apartment loose from its very foundation, the frenzy of it all reminding me scathingly of my inactivity. Always the impatient sort, I hated to remain sedentary. Although the hour was early and I was likely in no condition to be up and about, I made the mighty effort to rise from my makeshift bed and go through the motions of preparing for the day ahead of me. It was certainly no easy feat – my shoulder ached, my hands trembled, and on the whole I felt embarrassingly weak – but I managed to wrestle my way into presentable clothing. I decided that, if I could get through such mundane tasks, I would waste no time in preparing to leave and find Vito – perhaps that very night if possible. My mind remained sharp; I felt that was all I needed to face off with him, to outsmart him once again and put an end to his quest for vengeance.

When Madame Giry entered the sitting room to find me standing before the fire that I had coaxed into a powerful blaze once more, she gasped at the unexpected sight and proceeded to scold me for my stubbornness.

"So recently were you at death's door, and your reaction is to overexert yourself," she fussed.

"I would hardly call the other night a trip to death's door," I responded nonchalantly, but a hard look from her told me to tread cautiously and not make light of the event, even if doing so distracted me from my very real fears, "I'm quite alright now, at least."

"You should still be resting."

"I feel much better standing upright, thank you. I see no point in wasting away waiting for something to happen," I stated firmly, deciding that during that exchange I would need to make the head of the household aware of my plans, "I despise inactivity, you know, and I'm certainly doing myself no favors by lying about this apartment."

She huffed, "Indeed. And I daresay, with that attitude, I suppose you're doing us _all_ a favor now. I, for one, am not up to listening to you griping about _much needed_ rest. So, do what you must. If you find yourself hindered in your recovery because of your pigheadedness, don't blame me."

"I won't. Thank you," I said, relinquishing my bravado and looking directly at her in the hope of conveying my sincere gratitude once again. She had certainly earned more than my petulance, but for the moment I could only give her my simple thanks in the hopes that it would be enough.

She sighed and shook her head, but smiled, "Of course. It's good to see you up again. How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

"It's nothing I can't manage."

"Christine told me the details of what happened to you out there."

"Good. She's saved me the effort in explaining."

"You gave us quite a scare, you know."

"I'm well aware, but really I'd prefer to put it behind us now."

"Certainly."

"Are the girls alright? Are they awake yet?"

"They're both fine, and still asleep as far as I know. It's still early, mind you."

"Not everyone is an early-riser," I shrugged.

"You and I are alike in that way, as I'm sure you know. Up with the sun, ready to get right down to the business of the day."

"It's good that you mention that," I said in a more serious tone that quickly caught her attention, "I don't necessarily want to talk about the other night right now, but because of those events, things have changed for us."

"I'm aware," she responded gravely.

"I fear Christine and I shall be obliged to put off the journey to London for a time," I said, giving breath to the truth that had occurred to me many times since arriving at the apartment, "We need to hide out right now, until it's safe enough to travel again."

"You're staying here," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I was taken aback, "That's not what I was suggesting. I truly cannot say how long we should have to remain in the city. I wouldn't impose upon you like that, Madame. And I won't put you or Meg in any danger in the meantime."

" _Do_ you think we're in danger?"

I paused and considered before responding, "I doubt Vito will try to come this far into the city, but even so, after the other night I won't take unnecessary chances."

"I won't have it," she waved her hand dismissively, "You two are the safest here. I'd feel much better knowing that I can be here to protect you – "

"– Madame – "

"- _Not to mention_ , you two have no business gallivanting about the city unchaperoned," I rolled my eyes as she looked sternly at me and went on, "I won't hear of it. It's inappropriate for an unmarried couple. For Heaven's sake, you aren't even engaged."

" _That_ will happen soon enough," I protested, and as I spoke Madame and I turned our heads simultaneously to a sudden shuffling in the hallway, but I discounted the noise and continued, "Don't steal my thunder, Madame, certain events will occur in due time, I assure you. I should like to not have the surprise ruined. Before then, I have business of my own to attend to."

She raised an eyebrow at my evasive admission, "Such as?"

I sighed, "I have to find Vito," another sound from the hallway, "As soon as possible. I have to put an end to this."

"You cannot be serious. How many bullets do you want me to take from your flesh, Erik?"

"I won't be caught unawares, this time. I won't let him try to hunt us down again, I have to do something before there's any chance of this situation getting worse."

"Foolish man, you're throwing yourself right into the lion's den. This is a mistake, this whole idea of pursuing your enemy. Really, you're acting far too hastily. You're hardly recovered as it is."

"I'm fine, Madame."

"I just cannot condone – oh, for goodness sake, I hear you out there. Come out, _now_ , the both of you!"

Two figures emerged slowly from the protective shadows of their hiding place, caught in the act of listening in on a conversation in which they were not intended to be involved – Meg appeared sheepish before her mother, Christine gazed intently at me. _Damn,_ I thought, cursing myself for not being more aware of my surroundings, for hearing the disturbance in the otherwise peaceful air and ignoring it. I had intended to speak to Christine directly on the matter, just the two of us; for her to learn of my plans completely by accident on my part surely would yield no positive outcome – she certainly would not be in favor of that particular excursion, not without a proper explanation at the very least. I saw both anger and concern amid a tinge of hurt behind her eyes, but I resolved to remain as calm and indifferent for the moment as possible.

"You two know better than this," Madame Giry fumed, "Eavesdropping, how disgraceful. Hadn't I taught you better as girls? You are no longer in the ballet, you know."

"I apologize, Maman, Erik," Meg said with a soft sincerity.

"I, as well," Christine said evenly before continuing, "But Madame, if you don't mind, in light of recent revelations I'd like to speak with my _suitor_ alone."

I flinched at her blunt and formal directness.

"As you wish," Madame Giry said, "Maybe you can talk some sense into this one. Come with me Meg, let us give them their privacy."

The Girys left the room, leaving a silence in their wake that was palpable. Christine and I looked at each other a long time, neither of us moving from our respective positions in the space. The clock ticked away on the mantelpiece as the fire crackled away beneath it, the storm raged on outside in an increasing cacophony that might have been intimidating had we paid it any mind, but we did not speak initially. I regretted the turn of events, that we had hardly been granted a proper reunion since having to part ways after I was obliged to slip into unconsciousness, but with the truth out in the open, I was determined to stand my ground. I would let her say her peace, but I had already decided what needed to be done, as much as I hated to bring further conflict into our lives.

"A good morning to you, mademoiselle," I said at length with an exaggerated bow.

"What are you doing, Erik?" she asked intensely, ignoring my insensitivity.

"Don't you already know?" I bit back, speaking more harshly than intended, "Didn't you hear enough from your vantage point?"

"Spare me. We didn't _intend_ to eavesdrop like that, like misbehaving children," she said haughtily, "We couldn't find an opportune moment to cut in to the conversation."

"The polite thing to do, then, is to leave and come back later."

"I don't think _you_ , of all people, are in a position to tell me that eavesdropping is inappropriate, _Monsieur le Fantome."_

" _Touché_ ," I said, stifling a grin at her stubborn determination to best me, then sighed, "Christine, I'm sorry that you found out this way. Know that I was going to discuss this with you – "

"When you came back bleeding once again?"

I shook my head, growing annoyed, "You act as though I sought out the last attack. As you well know, I do not plan to be ambushed this time."

"What _do_ you plan to do, then?"

"Seek him out and end this. It is as simple as that, darling."

"It's too dangerous, Erik."

"It's _too dangerous_ to try and move on from here with him still after us. He's not going to give up, trust me. I might have been able to incapacitate him before, but that was a temporary solution to make it out of there with my life. It does not mean he'll give up his pursuit, and I have to do anything and everything I can to stop him."

"I think Madame Giry was right, you're acting rashly. That hastiness won't do you any good. Please, you really only just woke up, give yourself time and think about this before you go out there again."

"I'm not acting rashly, I'm doing what needs to be done. I _have_ to."

"But your shoulder – "

"– Will be fine. I'm not worried about old injuries."

"Look down!" she nearly shouted, "You still wear the sling, the reminder that such injuries are certainly _not_ old. Even if you were in a better physical condition, what good can come of this? Truly?"

"Freedom," I stated flatly, "We will not be cornered a second time. I will not have us spend our lives looking over our shoulders, nor will I let him rein power over me any longer. Not again."

"So that's part of what this is about? Your pride?"

"It goes far beyond that. We're so close to letting go of the past, starting anew. It's just as you wanted, just as I've come to realize I've so desired after fighting myself for so long. Think of how long it took you to convince me that going on together was the best choice for us. I don't take that for granted, and I won't let it go now. We're finally ready to face the unknown, that grand idea that's come to drive us onward, and I won't let anything stand in our way. Vito is a very real threat to us now, a threat I had thought long-gone. The past _cannot_ be allowed to come back to haunt us."

"Then _don't_ allow it. Let this alone, Erik, _please_. You're only serving to tempt fate. Don't let him win by going back to face him. I don't doubt that he threatens us, that he means to end you, and I don't want to find out how dedicated he is to that."

"I will not meet my end by his hand," I said with persistent stubbornness.

"Don't you want to be with me?" she asked abruptly.

I narrowed my eyes in confusion, "Of course. Why would you even question such a thing?"

"Because your intended actions will pull you away from me, tear you from my life again. And this time, if he wins, I won't get you back," she said, looking so terrified that I longed to break my determined stance and reach out to her.

"Christine – "

"Don't go after him, or – "

"Or what?" I snapped, suddenly feeling defensive, "Is this the ultimatum, then? Don't go after him or you'll leave?"

"Or you'll risk giving up everything we've fought so hard for," she said evenly, "We've only just gotten our lives back, Erik. Don't throw it all away now."

She looked at me, head held high and shoulders squared in a posture of ultimate determination, before finally turning away and leaving the room altogether. The silence returned once more, interrupted only by the ticking clock, the steady rainfall, and my own turbulent thoughts.

~~oOo~~

My mind raced back and forth on my resolve, screaming incessantly – I could think of nothing but revenge, defense, freedom, and every possible outcome of my pursuit.

There was nothing much I could do with myself beyond pacing like a caged animal. I had too much energy, it seemed; where so recently I had been utterly incapacitated, after my resolve to find Vito and the subsequent conversation with Christine, I felt that I could not move fast enough around the small apartment. I was torn between inaction and defeat, or the guarantee of safety at the removal of my old foe from my life once and for all by means of risking my life in the effort. Either way, I didn't like my options. Christine was right, of course. The very idea of seeking out and confronting the person that himself violently sought my demise was foolhardy to say the least. I wasn't irrational enough to think that there would be no risk involved; my shoulder proved to be my biggest hurtle, my range of motion starkly limited. Even if I wasn't injured, I had to admit that Vito was the one person that could have potentially bested me if it came down to a physical altercation. Where I was strategic and quick to calculated action, he was prone to abrupt reactions. A clash between the two of us would be unpredictable, his flaws potentially enough to make him more dangerous if I lost control of the situation for even the briefest of moments.

Yet allowing Vito to go on living guaranteed that he would not rest until he caught up to us again. An attack by him was inevitable, I was sure, and my instincts told me that our coming to blows once again after allowing his hatred to simmer would end in disaster one way or another. His sights were set on me, but worse, he knew about Christine's deep involvement in my life; that factor alone struck me with horror. It was one thing to come after me in the spirit of vengeance, but Christine was targeted simply because of her association to me. I could not come to terms with that, could not go on with my life if she was hurt because of me. I had sworn to protect her – it was my duty to fight for the woman I loved. I wanted more than anything to be her husband, one that she deserved beyond a shadow of a doubt, and she deserved every sacrifice I could offer. Every part of me, from the time I first laid eyes upon her, cried out to protect her at all costs. That protectiveness giving way to love, one we fought intensely to define and keep, only strengthened my sense of duty. I kept telling myself that we had come too far to risk allowing one vengeful man to take from us everything we held dear – so long as he remained at large, we were in danger.

It seemed as though we would not win no matter what I chose to do. But still I could not allow us to be defeated by the ghosts of my past – my action was imperative. Somehow I had to fight back, and do so in a way that ensured victory in the end.

And yet something held me back, caused my resolve to falter more steadfastly.

I sighed. There was much more to the situation at hand than was immediately apparent. I had to admit it to myself; I couldn't continue on my stubborn path any longer, trying to convince myself that I was fighting for something bigger than ourselves. I was fighting for her safety and our ultimate freedom, to be sure, but I could not deny her reasoning, as hard as I tried to find the most logical and noble response to it. I suddenly realized that if I were truly to be deserving of her heart, of the privilege of calling myself her husband, then I had to stop thinking as one entity. From then on, I knew, my decisions had to be based upon more than hasty calls to action. We had to act as one. It was time for me to start learning that, to apply that knowledge to our lives. I knew then that, if I didn't take heed to that singular moment of clarity, then regardless of the best of my intentions, I could still lose her, could still lose my life and render our struggles to be in vain.

I would give my life for her if it came down to it, but I had to learn to choose my battles wisely.


	15. Let It Be Me

**Author's Note:** _Hello to everyone, whether you're new or have been here from the start! I'll keep this short. Things have been extremely stressful here lately, and I have some worries about how this story is playing out, but the show will go on, I promise. Writing helps me to manage some of my stress, and so rest assured that even in the shittiest of times, updates will happen. Well, I don't want to get much into the nitty-gritty. Moving on. This chapter's title is based upon the Elvis Presley song of the same name. Definitely check it out, it's a great song for events in the chapter because of reasons. You'll see. ;) At any rate, it's a great song, another that I was so glad to get to use for this piece. Anywhoodles, once again I hope this chapter proves to be satisfactory, and I will have updates soon-ishly, so don't give up on me just yet, we've got plenty more story to go! :D R &R and enjoy! _

Chapter 15 – Let It Be Me

Christine

After the heated exchange of that morning, the house remained steadfastly quiet, its inhabitants all too stubborn and angry to ease the tension that was becoming nearly tangible. I had no intention of breaking that silence first; I was simply unable to bring myself to cross that bridge once more, the situation proving to be far more complex than any ordinary disagreement between lovers.

I could understand Erik's need to fly out into the night once again and put a stop to the man that meant to pursue us until a fatal end was met – truly I knew his sense of duty and devotion to our relationship and our very future would spark in him a need to take immediate action. However, I could not condone his intentions. He meant every word he said, believed in his heart that he was doing the right thing, but I couldn't justify his plan nonetheless. It would be too dangerous; he was reacting too hastily, and I feared that alone might have been enough to cloud his judgment and lead him to make potentially devastating mistakes. I didn't doubt Erik's abilities to defend himself, not ordinarily. But learning what I had about Vito, about how he chose to deal with hand-to-hand combat, made me absolutely sure that Erik would be walking into his suicide if he chose to pursue the issue further. I knew that it was far more practical to let the frightening and intense situation settle down and allow ourselves to lie low for a time until a quick and safe escape presented itself to us.

Once again we were engaged in a dance of stubbornness – I was only too aware of the fact that he was nearly impossible to reach with rational words when an idea struck him. As much as he loved me, he was also deeply fueled by his passions, and I knew that once more I had to allow him the time to work through the mazes within his mind to find the most appropriate and safe solution for us. I knew from the outset that bringing Erik back to reality would be a struggle – it didn't surprise me at all that I found myself in the very situation that we had only recently just worked through. But Erik didn't see it that way; where before I had to leave him alone to compel him to realize that a relationship between the two of us was worth the risk, this time he had to realize that the risk in question was far graver than a broken heart. If Vito attacked once again and Erik could not conquer him, his life would be risked and potentially lost altogether. I wasn't willing to lay down that hand in the hopes that fortune might be on our sides – certainly not after so recently tempting the fates.

I was resigned to the fact that Erik would not let go of his stubbornness overnight – I wasn't so naïve as to think otherwise, and I was entirely prepared to be as patient and supportive as any devoted woman should be within the realm of reason. But concurrently, I was utterly hurt by his hasty decision. I knew he spoke the truth when he said he meant to discuss the matter with me – that wasn't my concern. It troubled me deeply that, not only did he seem bent on sticking to his decision no matter what, but that he had decided to act in the first place. All I had longed for was to hold him once again, to hear his voice speaking reassurances and making solid plans for our future – immediate and otherwise. When Meg and I happened upon his discussion with Madame, when I learned that such desires of mine would be thwarted, oh I was heartbroken. He needed, more than anything, to understand how that hurt me. And so, in realizing this, I knew that giving him time to come to responsible decisions on his own could not be the permanent manner with which we resolved conflict. I could resign myself one last time to giving him room to think, but from then on we had to learn to act differently regarding one another.

I told him just that when he came to me late that evening.

I had expected him to be long-gone by then – had dreaded the sound of the front door closing and leading him into danger once again – and was startled when he knocked on the door to Madame Giry's study where I had been holed up in an attempt to distract myself from him entirely. When I said my peace, he looked genuinely remorseful. He sighed heavily as he moved a chair to be nearer to me. It was the first time we had been alone in that room together since the night he sat there bleeding to death; the contrast didn't escape me, and I had to suppress a shudder at the memory.

"I know how badly this has scared you," he said in a low voice, "I'm so sorry."

"I know that you're sorry," I sighed, "But I fear that may not be enough, that you're still leaving here tonight."

"I don't like the events that have come to pass, how badly off course we've been thrown – "

"Neither do I, but – "

" – _But,_ while I am loath to let the bastard go free after all that he's done…you should know that now I know that I have to admit defeat."

"Erik, please don't tell me this was about your pride after all."

"It is not. It, in the end, is about us. You and I, our safety, and our future. So, I am defeated only in the sense that my stubbornness and single-mindedness can no longer influence my decisions, or our lives as a whole for that matter. And that, my darling, is a very good thing. You and I are committed to this journey together, are we not? I realize that I now have to see us as one. I _want_ to, because I know that's what's right."

"You're not going out tonight?"

"I am not. It's a bad idea, and I don't want to frighten you or leave you in the dark anymore. It's not the proper way to set off on our lives together."

"You realized all of that today?"

"I did," he said with a grin.

"So you're _certainly_ not leaving here to find Vito?"

"Not tonight, and not ever, if I can help it. Unless we come face-to-face with him again, it would be foolhardy not to let this lie. I agree with you. We're better off leaving here and putting this behind us."

I smiled, "I cannot tell you how relieved I am."

"I'm sure you are. And again, I'm sorry that any of this has happened at all, for frightening you so badly."

"It is only the thought of losing you that frightens me."

"I can say the same about you. But I'm sure you already knew that. And so, bearing that in mind, know that while I promise to stay here tonight, I also intend to keep the promise I made to you our first night here. I'm going to protect you, so long as I live I will."

I paused at a memory and considered before responding, "I made that same promise to you."

"When?"

"The very night you did. I feel just as protective of you, and I promised that night to keep you safe with as much determination as you show me."

"Ah, well it seems you are making good on that promise. It's only just beginning, but I know that you alone have the power to keep me centered," he added with an air of mock-amazement, "A truly miraculous skill, I daresay you're the only one that possesses it."

"Not even Madame Giry?"

"No, it's not quite the same."

"Color me honored."

He laughed, then added seriously, "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't," I sighed contentedly, "I also know Madame has been fussing over you all day and you've heard this far too many times already, but it really is good to see you doing so well."

"I regret taking from you the opportunity to revel in our good fortune. Let us start over again, perhaps?"

"I would appreciate that."

He stood up, taking my hands gently in his as he did. We faced each other for a time, considering one another and the great strides we continued to make together, slowly but surely moving onward in aspects of our relationship entirely new to us both; I sighed warmly at the sight of him before me – even wearing the sling he held himself with an air of confidence, that ever-apparent power that he had finally won back not so long ago. He met my eyes with a strange mix of calmness and excitement that reassured me that he was sincere in his words, that he would not regret remaining by my side instead of fighting his enemy, and I knew that in that singular look was the reminder of the promise he had made. He would do whatever was in his power to do right by me, to not let me down. He held me close to him with his uninjured arm, and as I wrapped my arms around him to return the loving gesture I caught myself smiling more jovially than I had for some time. I made no effort to stifle the expression.

It seemed then that the dust had finally settled in our otherwise tumultuous lives, and I allowed myself to enjoy the peace. Absentmindedly – even superstitiously – I worried about cursing us to more misfortune by giving myself to the idea that we were finally free of our burdens, but for the moment it seemed all too right to look ahead and know that the horizon would be clear for us, that perhaps our suffering was finally over and that we had earned a better existence once and for all.

He continued to hold me closely to him, and for the first time since escaping our moonlit attack, I felt entirely content.

~~oOo~~

Erik

"Do you still have it?" I asked, shifting my weight nervously while fidgeting with the sling once again, earning myself a warning look from Madame Giry.

"Of course I do," Madame scoffed distractedly as she rummaged through her possessions, "I know it's here somewhere. What in the world _would_ I have done with it?"

"Considering my behavior when I got it, I wouldn't have been surprised if you threw it into the Seine and said to hell with the idea."

"Well if you would recall, I _do_ believe I discouraged any rash actions. You didn't listen to me then as you barely listen to me now," she huffed, then added with a grin, "Looking back, even then the both of you proved to be far too stubborn for me. Ah, here it is, what did I tell you? At any rate, it would have been utterly wasteful to toss away such a fine little piece of art, my dear," she finished with a triumphant smile.

"That's true. Now may I have it back?"

"Use it well," she said as she handed me the small box.

"I intend to," I responded, pocketing the object.

Only a few days had passed since my heated exchange with Christine and my subsequent decision on the matter – a decision that, fortunately, she had pushed me to rethink. Mercifully, we were able to resolve the issue together in the end. She knew me well enough to know that certain choices had to be made on my own terms and in my own time, but even so, I was admittedly relieved that she wanted to put an end to _that_ habit.

My idea had been to propose once we established ourselves in London – a prideful instinct in me suggested that I had to have the means to provide for her and offer her a respectable life before I would even dare to dream of being worthy enough for her hand. I had botched my last attempt at a proposal to her, and spectacularly so at that; I was determined to do right by her no matter how long it took. Our dedication to one another out in the open, there was no need to worry about wandering hearts of faltering commitment. But being attacked in our attempt to move on with our lives shook me to the core; I did not like to feel weakness, but even more so I did not like to feel that my life was slipping from my grasp. Not after fighting for so long to win back the desire to live that life. Our choices were our own – nothing should be taken from us that we didn't willingly let go. I wanted to propose, to symbolize my dedication to the woman I loved, and fighting my way back to safety after a near-fatal encounter made me realize that there was no real reason to wait to ask that singularly important question.

"Will you be safe out there?" Madame Giry asked, breaking me from my distracted thoughts.

"I expect so, yes."

"How can you be certain?"

"It is as I said, Vito is not likely to venture into the city. I know his habits well. And besides," I opened my coat to reveal the gun holster securely strapped to my person, "I am nothing if not well-prepared."

"Christ, do you really think it will come down to having to use _that_?"

"A precaution, really. I truly don't think we will be bothered out there, by him or anyone else. It's too cold and too late for anyone to be about."

"Well, you've just gotten _everything_ taken care of, haven't you?" she asked with mock-sarcasm.

"Don't I always?" I grinned smugly.

"A gun-wielding man smiling before me is no comforting sight, I must say."

"Put it out of mind, and don't dampen my spirits. A good mood is hard for me to come by, and you know that."

She quirked an eyebrow, "You don't exaggerate. Still, I worry about you two wandering about the city at night."

"We won't be _wandering_. I have a destination in mind. In fact, once she's ready, I'd like to set off," she gave me a questioning look, to which I responded in a placating tone, "Everything will be fine."

"Well, potential risk notwithstanding, I'll say this now, Erik. I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you both. And when she says yes, you have my blessing."

"Thank you, Maman."

~~oOo~~

I stopped in my tracks when I caught the first sight of Christine that evening. I had not told her where we were going or why, simply to dress warmly and to be prepared for a journey. She complied, returning my rather uncharacteristic and nearly perpetual joviality with a smile of her own. When it came time to leave the apartment, I ensured that I had collected all that would be necessary for the evening before going to the room that she shared with Meg to inquire upon whether or not she was ready. My free hand was raised to rap on the doorframe when I saw her.

She sat before the vanity, prepared for the trek out into the snow and ice entirely, save for the effort she put into winding her hair into a plait. She seemed wholly consumed by the action, giving me ample chance to look upon her unnoticed. Despite the years I had known her, I couldn't believe the sight before me, how beautiful she looked – her eyes seemed to gaze far off into the distance as her hands moved gracefully in a motion long-familiar to them. A single lamp illuminated the space, casting a glow upon her that made my heart skip a beat; in that moment I fell in love with her all over again, remembering the first time I realized my feelings for her. I knew from the start that we would somehow become involved with one another – but I hadn't known then just how deeply involved we would come to be, that we would truly fall in love. I counted myself extremely fortunate then; so often had I acted in ways that should have ensured that I lost her, yet there I stood, a ring in my pocket, waiting to take her to ask a question that would change us forever, knowing that she followed me willingly with a devotion that I scarcely had allowed myself to believe that I deserved.

"It's impolite to stare, darling. Although, I _am_ flattered," she scolded lightly, pulling me from my reverie, a smile following her sly humor.

"As you should be. You look beautiful."

She blushed and looked down shyly, "I should be used to your flirting by now."

"One flirts with an air of lightheartedness. I solemnly swear that I speak the truth to you."

"Well then," she straightened up with an air of mock-formality, "in that case, I say the same to you. You look most dashing this evening."

I laughed, "Are you ready?"

"I am. But I should like to know where exactly you plan to take me to at this hour."

I offered my arm when she approached, "I have told you, and not so long ago, mind you, that a magician never reveals his secrets. Don't try to guess, either. I promise, you'll like it."

It was easy enough to put our fears of being ambushed out of mind. While Vito would not venture deeply into the city for the simple fact that he stood out too starkly, Christine and I could travel almost entirely unnoticed by means of utter ordinariness. No one would question a young couple, arm in arm and clothed against the late-winter weather, walking their way through the city streets – even at the late hour, anyone would likely assume we were winding our way home and nothing more. It was in the mundane that we found our safety, and I was grateful for the opportunity to blend in. I had a very specific destination in mind, the journey to which required a walk of some distance, and I didn't want to have to skulk through the shadows to make it there. I hid from the city of Paris as I hid from Vito – by all accounts I was still a man with a target on my back. Should Vito find us, or the locals learn the truth behind our deceitful newspaper article, the outcome would have been disastrous. But I placed my confidence in our safety that night in the trust that we could pass as any other couple, and in doing so would not be threatened from any side.

The days of steady rain turned the snow-covered ground into a slick surface of ice and slush; we had to progress more slowly than we would have otherwise, but our pace proved to be entirely pleasant. We talked in hushed tones, yet in our quiet we shared the happiness that we were finally allowing into our lives – in her voice I heard hope, in my own mind I felt optimism slowly making its way through my cynical barriers of self-defense. It was a feeling more often than not denied me, either by my own accord or the actions of others, and I had to remind myself that years of conditioning did not mean I should continue to condone my own suffering. It was an unfamiliar notion, to say the least, and I had to actively brush fear and apprehension from my heart. But progress was being made little by little, and that alone pushed me on.

We had been walking for some time when I halted our progress and announced that we had reached our destination. Christine gasped at the simple yet oddly beautiful structure, first awestruck and then confused. The building before us was abandoned, and to anyone else would not seem a fitting venue for a night out with a loved one, let alone a proposal.

But not me.

I did not know the history behind the house – only that it had been long-abandoned even when I first saw it. The tall and elegant structure caught my attention during a late-night jaunt into the city some years after I settled into the opera house. Concealed by the shadows that had so long protected me, I gave in to curiosity and explored the house – empty yet mysteriously well-maintained, the structure inspired an interest in architecture in me that flourished, yet to my dismay once I left the building, I was unable to locate its whereabouts again for quite some time. I had nearly given up my pursuit when I stumbled upon it, still empty, seemingly entirely uninhabited during all the years that separated my last sight of it.

I never knew what drew me to it initially, but I understood what compelled me to bring Christine to it so many years later. It made perfect sense, as if its only purpose was to stand tall as a beacon for us, a reminder of all the potential we held for each other. It hadn't been so long since we too faced our respective abandonment, yet somehow continued on. I daresay she often proved to be the stronger of the two of us, but that aspect of her only drove me to reach higher than I had dared before, once I allowed myself to realize that I could. So many promises I made her; I was determined to keep every last one of them, despite the screaming dread that my mind had become so accustomed to use in warding off potential pain. I wanted her to see that house, if anything, to prove that I too held the potential for greatness.

I attempted to convey just that to Christine, but I found myself suddenly more nervous than I had expected to be. With a trembling hand, I led her up to the top floor of the house.

Paris lay below us in a spiraling maze of glowing snow and flickering lights from houses far beyond. From our high vantage point we could see much of the place we called home for so long, the city that held its citizens in its grasp, their secrets tucked into every corner and their lives on display at the will of the unseen hands of the fates. Streets crossed and turned this way and that, a maze to the unfamiliar and a thrill to the seasoned traveler. Church steeples rose high, beckoning the weary to their comforting and hallowed halls. For so long had I stayed deep below the surface that I had forgotten what had drawn so many romantics before me to that grand city, its splendor and magnificence out for the taking to anyone willing and worthy to let it all in – even in my ventures up to the rooftop of the Opera Populaire, I had blinded myself in my bitterness from my surroundings. That night with Christine, I was able to look around me with new eyes; for a fleeting moment I realized that there were aspects of Paris that I would truly miss.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, awestruck once again as she grasped my hand tighter, "So lovely. We're so high up. Well, not as high as the opera house, of course," she laughed, "But I think I like this view better. Now," she turned to me, "what _are_ we doing here, then? I know there's a reason you brought me here."

"I wonder if you've already guessed," I said, but she only smiled knowingly as I continued, "There is a very _important_ reason I brought you here, you're correct."

I pulled the small jeweler's box from my pocket – the moment she saw it she gasped and covered her mouth with her gloved hand. She looked at me intently, if not excitedly, and I knew that she understood entirely what I had planned, that her suspicions had been proven facts.

I took a deep breath, suddenly very desperate to steady myself. Without warning, my damnable mind, addled by guilt, sought to betray me then. Memories came crashing through, all warring to be at the forefront of my consciousness and stealing my optimism – it seemed that every mistake, every wrong I committed against her and every ounce of pain I caused fought to remind me of how very undeserving I was of the life I sought. A wave of terror and anger washed over me so jarringly that I thought the world itself had stopped turning. It was as if I was participating in a moment that I had stolen – surely no man as riddled with anger and sin as I could stand before a woman and ask her hand in marriage. The very idea that she had forgiven me for any past transgressions seemed terrifyingly _wrong_ , as if the goodness she granted me were simply a fever dream that I would awaken from at any moment. During our journey to the building I was cognizant of the fact that I had to begin allowing myself to let go of the fear and the pain, but in that moment it all threatened to come back and undo my resolve once again.

But I couldn't let that be, couldn't let a moment of nervousness and anxiety turn me into the man that would once again break her heart. We worked too hard and fought too long for me to unwillingly snatch it all away in mere seconds. I couldn't change my mind.

 _Don't do this now_ , I commanded myself, _we are allowed to be happy. I am allowed to be happy._

Another deep breath, and I brought myself back to reality once again.

 _This is right._

"There's so much I've done in my life," I started, weighing my words carefully, "So much I want to take back. I've told you this before, but I have to say it again now. Of all of the things I regret, _you_ are not one of them. Meeting you is something I would never change. Our lives are a series of rises and falls, always going on and seldom with any balance between the two. You and I are the products of our falls, but you alone have taken me up, you've raised me to heights I never thought myself capable. I can only hope I've done even a fraction for you what you've done for me. You make me better, you make me want to break away from the darkness that defined me for so long. There's so much ahead of us now, and I know it's daunting, I know how hard you had to convince me that our going on together was the right thing to do, and now I'm _so_ glad you did. I don't know what the future holds exactly, but I know now that, after all we've been through, we can face anything, and I want you there beside me," I removed the glove from her hand and placed the gold ring on her finger, looking intently into her eyes as I said, "I want you beside me always, and so now I'm asking if you'll be there as my wife. I'm asking if you'll marry me."

She cried, and was only able to nod in answer at first before whispering, "Of course."

"You will?" I asked in abject disbelief.

"Yes," she laughed, "You only needed to ask me."

Within seconds of her response I took her up in a powerful embrace, heedless of my injured arm or of seeming overtly enthusiastic – it didn't matter to me if I appeared to be a lunatic, only that the woman I held in my arms had accepted my proposal. I kissed her then, and she returned the gesture with a passion that left me breathless. My heart pounded and my thoughts swam disjointedly, but I paid neither any mind. It was an amazingly lighthearted and worriless sensation, and I refused to let myself ruin it or banish it entirely by overthinking the true gravity of its origin. When at last we parted, we held one another a long time – letting go seemed impossible, and I had no intention of letting our fervor be lessened any time soon.

We fought through hell, a seemingly endless battle through darkness and pain and the haunting fear of our pasts and our ultimate separation to make it to that moment. I recalled long nights of drunken anger and regret, cursing myself and thinking that no light could ever shine into my heart again. Yet somehow it had – Christine became that light for me, steadily guiding me out of the prison of the broken shell of a human that I had turned myself into. She shared with me her wisdom and utter bravery in the idea that we could have our lives back – that we could continue on together and ultimately thrive despite the endless void of the unknown. She helped me destroy the shackles of fate that I had for so long believed to be unavoidable, the notion that my past would always define me. In the end I could see that none of what I was told of myself was true – the ghosts could move on, the demons could rest. They no longer had the power to destroy me, to consume me from within. Christine taught me to conquer, to continue to learn to fight my battles, where once I would have succumbed to bitterness. None of that old pain or resilient fear mattered any longer; the moment she said yes, I was brave – a better man. All that mattered from then on was that I would continue to take those steps forward with her.

She said yes, and once again I found myself redeemed through her.

.

.

 **Author's Note:** D'aww. About damn time.


	16. Lay Down Your Arms

**Author's Note:** _First of all, Merry belated-Christmas and Happy New Year!_ _Welp, it's been a while, a long fucking while really, and I sincerely apologize for falling off the face of the earth these last several weeks. I won't go into great deal, it's just one of those "life happens" kind of things. Not fun, not pleasant, but it is what it is. *shrugs* Rest assured that, drama and unpleasantness aside, everyone is at least safe. Well, I won't ramble any longer. The good news is, I've got a few updates prepped for y'all in the next few days, and while I have to take a work trip out of state later this week, I'll have a lot of time to get some writing done there as well. I'm also planning to get a solid finish outlined, so we'll be all set to go to conclude this phic. But don't worry, said conclusion won't be **too** soon; we're only about half-way through at this point, by my expert estimations. ;) Again, I apologize for my rather abrupt hiatus. On that note, I would once again like to extend my gratitude for those that continued to fave/follow/review in my absence. I know I say it all the time, but it truly means a lot to me. Y'all rock! Anywhoodles, a couple of notes on this chapter before I release y'all from my little lecture. First, yes, this is a Raoul chapter. Specifically, a Raoul-friendly chapter. Not gonna lie, I totally need to atone for all the times in the past in which I've killed him off or make him an unimaginable fucktard. But beyond that, I can see where, with some understanding and maturity, he isn't really **that** bad of a guy...I suppose...Besides, I need these assholes on good terms for later because of reasons. *gasp!* I've said too much. Anyway, definitely read this one, even if your distaste for Raoul is deeply-rooted, because a lot of what happens here not only needs to be said, but is also somewhat essential to the plot later. Finally, the title of this chapter comes from the Green Day song "21 Guns," which in this context seems to me like the inklings of understanding between Raoul and Erik, if they were to ever allow themselves to see eye-to-eye and really talk things out, and the lyrics really reflect that notion, in my opinion. Welp, I do believe that's about it. More updates soon. I sense a wedding in the future. ;) Please share your thoughts and enjoy! _

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Chapter 16 – Lay Down Your Arms

Raoul

My sense of duty to my family and my country is equaled only by my sense of duty to my oldest and dearest friends. I held Christine in that high regard for a long time, during our courtship and even beyond the days immediately following her choice to break off our engagement. With time, I could wholly understand her reasoning, even if I didn't entirely agree with its origins. I harbored no bitterness toward her; on the contrary, I respected her for being forthcoming and risking her own personal comfort to care for the hearts of others – even as little as I could understand her devotion to my masked foe, that is. As children, we were both content to let the cards fall as they may and accept our circumstances obediently. Yet as we grew older, I witnessed her transform into a woman that meant to consider all aspects of any situation and to see things through to the end. She spared feelings whenever possible, acted with honesty and the purest of intent, and behaved as selflessly as could be humanly possible. She did so in regards to myself and Erik, in the tangled affair that had defined our shared experiences, and I would be lying if I said I didn't feel the love that she had for me when confronting me compassionately – even if the meaning of that love had changed.

Yes, I respected her and her decision. Yet at the same time, I still worried.

Truly that deep sense of worry was for her safety and wellbeing, for how she would bear the consequences of her choices during a time when she was only beginning to flex her independence. I hadn't been in direct contact with her since she left my family's estate all those weeks ago. I was sincere when I told her that she would always be welcomed within my home and within my life, but beyond extending those sincerest regards, I maintained my distance. It seemed to be the best thing I could do for her, for while she never said that I was no longer welcome in _her_ life, she had unequivocally broken off our romantic connection to one another. I would not do anything to cause her more unnecessary pain or conflict. But in being without contact, I was equally left without information. Madame Giry had initially assured me of Christine's safety, but that was long ago.

As of late, I had heard nothing from Christine herself – only chattering within my family and our immediate social circle about a particular newspaper article regarding the infamous Phantom and his sudden, heavily acclaimed demise. I hadn't entirely believed that he was truly dead – that seemed somehow quite unjust, the unabashed celebrations even distasteful in light of all that we had been through. But even assuming he was still alive, the article left me unnerved nonetheless. In seeing that news in print, my thoughts immediately went entirely to Christine. If what we read turned out to be true, she would have been devastated. While she never outright told me as much, I knew that a part of her loved him. How deeply that love ran was utterly unknown to me, but it was there, to be sure. If he were gone, a part of her heart would have gone with him. And so if I was wrong, if he was dead, then I worried for Christine's poor heart. That alone was part of what compelled me to go and see her, to gain answers for myself and to ensure that she was alright, even if all I could do was to speak to her words of comfort and nothing more. But I knew that I had to do at least that much for her.

Moreover, if he were in fact still alive and my suspicions of the article being a ruse was confirmed by seeing his continued existence before my own eyes, then my need to see Christine stemmed also from the simple desire to ensure her permanent safety. That fact alone played a large role in swaying my decision. Yes, I knew that she loved him, and I would neither deny her that choice nor question her reasons. But I could not say that I trusted the man entirely. Not after all that I had heard and witnessed for myself. In my memories he held onto her like a vice, and I couldn't help but worry that such behavior was still not beneath him. I wished not to engage in battle with him once again, but if it turned out that she was not going to remain safe with him, then I would do all I could to offer her that safety elsewhere, if need be. Even if in the end she chose not to remain with me, then at the very least she would have an undeniable freedom granted to her from whatever unseen dangers Erik might still have presented.

In realizing and understanding all of this, my mind was made up.

Upon learning of my plans to make the journey into Paris to Madame Giry's apartment, my family practically insisted that I go along with a driver – someone they trusted not only to further ensure my own wellbeing but to assist me in keeping my temper, no doubt. But I chose to decline their offer. They had been polite to Christine during her time in our home, although only superficially so. I'm proud to say that she took it all in great stride. Their distaste for her and the scandalous rumors which followed her incessantly were not necessarily hidden entirely, only thinly veiled by a façade of mandatory old-world civility. Subsequently, they did not receive my news of going to seek her out lightly. They had hoped that I would assent to a chaperone even if only to fend off more scandal on all accounts regarding our family, but to me such measures seemed unnecessary, even bordering on the snobbish. It made more sense, in terms of both practicality and respect, to go at it alone.

And besides, I felt that taking in the air of the awakening spring on horseback might do me some good. I needed a clear head before attempting to go forth with this endeavor.

~~oOo~~

The ride into Paris was simple enough in the most basic terms. Outwardly, it was entirely uneventful – I was likely seen by passersby as a lone and casual rider out for a jaunt, probably only for the recreation of it. But internally, my mind raced despite the cool and fresh air, despite the warm sunlight shining upon me as I rode onward. I had hoped the refreshing change of seasons would calm me, even to the slightest capacity, but that proved not to be so. As I drew closer to Paris and Madame Giry's apartment itself, the more disquietude I felt, an unnamed yet persistent nagging of mind clouding my thoughts and crowding out all else. I couldn't quite understand the underlying root of this; I was sure I wasn't walking into anything as dangerous as I had been the last time I met Erik face-to-face, not to mention the fact that I couldn't even be sure that he was with Madame or hiding out elsewhere – yet it left me uneasy just the same. So much so that all of the courage and resolve that I had worked up during the time preceding my journey began to falter upon my arrival, and quickly.

I stood before Madame Giry's front door like a fool, a shy child too timid to simply raise my hand to the wooden surface, all the while berating myself and questioning whether or not my decision to call upon my friend had been the right one after all. A movement at the curtain of the window just beside the front door told me that I needn't consider leaving without knocking – the attention of the people residing in the household was already upon me. There was no turning back then. Within seconds, I heard the bolt slide out of place, the door opening only slightly to reveal a rather confused and suspicious ballet mistress. I hoped to be able to express immediately that I meant no harm, that I came for reasons born of the most noble and gentlemanly intentions, but my rattled nerves only served to undo even the slightest semblance of a polite and tactful introduction.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, we weren't expecting you here today."

"I, ah, forgive my intrusion, Madame," I said, feeling uncharacteristically and increasingly more flustered and giving a little bow once I remembered my manners, "I hope my calling isn't of any inconvenience to you. If you'll permit me, I'd like to ask after Christine. Is…is she here?"

After a moment's hesitation, Madame responded, "Yes, she is. What is this regarding?"

"I haven't heard from her lately," I said awkwardly, "I've been worried."

"I told you weeks ago that she was here and safe."

"Yes, ma'am, of course. But as you said, that _was_ weeks ago. I'm sure you've seen in the papers about…well, I don't know the whole story. I want to make sure Christine is alright, if what's been written about the…about Erik is true."

Madame Giry sighed, "Please don't take offense to this, Monsieur, but I do not feel comfortable admitting you into my home. With all that's happened, we simply don't know who to trust anymore."

"Trust? Madame, what do you mean by this?" I asked more sharply than intended, my anxiety over the situation increasing tenfold, " _Is_ something wrong?"

"Mama? What's going on?" Meg appeared from the shadows of the room beyond and gasped when she saw me, "Raoul?"

"Good day to you, mademoiselle," I tilted my head slightly in acknowledgment.

"Meg, dear, I was just attempting to assure the young man of Christine's safety," Madame Giry explained to her daughter with a subtle warning glance in my direction, "I don't want to let him in, but-"

"– Let him in," Christine said suddenly, startling us all with her unexpected appearance, but I was immediately grateful simply to see her standing before me.

"Christine, I don't think that's a good idea. What will Erik think?"

 _So he is alive_ , I thought distantly, attempting to take in every aspect of the moment for further understanding on my part. Absentmindedly, I was surprised to realize that I was relieved by the news.

"He'll be fine," Christine responded determinedly.

"Even so, we really mustn't have people seeing Erik here. It isn't safe, I shouldn't have even hinted at his whereabouts to Monsieur De Chagney," Madame Giry insisted fretfully.

"He means us no harm, I'm sure," Christine said firmly, then turning to me asked, "Am I correct in that statement, Raoul?"

"Of course you are," I responded honestly. Truly I hadn't intended upon giving Erik away, had it been the case that he were indeed still alive. I only sought answers and resolutions. Bringing about the authorities would only complicate matters.

"Then, please, come in."

Madame Giry huffed and fussed but granted me entry into her home even so and ushered me to the sitting room. From that point I sat patiently and waited as the ladies of the house went about their business for a moment in other rooms. When Christine returned a short time later, she was about to come sit near me when a familiar masked figure followed immediately behind her. I assumed that either Christine or Madame Giry had alerted him to my presence, and nearly prepared myself for a confrontation before thinking better of it. I didn't want to create more conflict within a home in which I was only barely welcome. I chose to bide my time instead, allowing the situation to play itself out before making any rash decisions on how to approach the unusual circumstances in which I found myself.

Erik eyed me with unashamed disapproval. I certainly knew it was him, recognized the man before me by his mask and tall stature, his characteristic air of melded confidence and arrogance which commanded the room; he was virtually unchanged in appearance save for the white fabric sling which hung around his shoulder, yet even so something about him was markedly different. It was then that I realized that the wildness and desperation of his demeanor had been replaced by something else – a calmness and willed self-control behind his eyes that I had never seen in him before. It was an impressive, even surprising change in him, and I counted that alone among my blessings, forcefully remembering our last violent and charged encounter once again.

"What's going on here?" he asked Christine, his eyes darting back to me as if anticipating a strike against either of them.

"Raoul came here wishing to speak to me. I do not know exactly what about yet, but I'm permitting it."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I am."

He considered her directly before conceding, apparently appeased by her confidence, "Alright, then. I'll trust your judgment," then added in a low voice, "Be careful."

"I will, darling. Now go on," she added with a laugh, "And I'll hear of no eavesdropping from you, _Monsieur le Fantome_."

"I don't think you're one to talk, dear," he responded with a sly grin and what appeared to be a mock-warning, a private joke seeming to come about between them, by the look of it. I couldn't help but be shocked at their exchange, of the lightheartedness of their parting. He took one last sidelong, warning glance at me before leaving us alone.

"Well," I began once Christine had settled beside me on the divan, "I wasn't expecting that. He appears to be a changed man."

"Not changed," she shook her head distantly, "Found. He was lost for a long time, what you're seeing now is a man that's finally found himself again."

"I should say there is quite obviously a lot I don't know about him. What happened to him? His arm, I mean," I asked, remembering the curious sling. Its presence made little sense to me; Erik was the bringer of accidents, not the target.

"He was attacked. Shot."

I furrowed my brow in confusion, "The police?"

"No," she laughed humorlessly, "No, that would have been too simple," she trailed off and continued after a brief pause, "Raoul, I don't mean to be rude, but why _are_ you here?"

I hesitated, weighing my words and deciding just how much I should reveal to her, "When I saw the article, the one saying that Erik had died, I became worried. I thought, if anything happened to him, you would be heartbroken. It took me some time to decide whether or not coming here was wise, but in the end it seemed the right thing to do for you. I know that you love him."

She sighed, "You're right, I do very much. And I thank you for your concern."

"I see that you're engaged now," I said, attempting to sound casual as I gestured toward her hand and the golden band that glittered upon it.

"Yes, we are."

"When do you plan to marry?"

"Only a few more weeks now. Before we leave France."

"You're leaving France?" I asked, somewhat disappointed, "Altogether?"

"We haven't much choice in the matter. We cannot simply go on living like this, hiding indefinitely. It's time to start over, somewhere where no one knows us."

I sighed, "I suppose that makes sense. Where will that be, then?"

"London."

"It is very nice there."

"Does this appease your worry?" she asked gently, then continued in a rush, "Again, I'm not meaning to be rude, and I'm not trying to get rid of you. But you've just seen Erik for yourself, you needn't worry over my emotional state. You know now that the article was a lie. He had to make it back to this apartment to prepare to leave for London. We meant it as a means of ensuring his safe retreat."

"Of course, after being attacked like that, it makes sense as well."

"Unfortunately, the attack came after the article. Our pursuer didn't believe what he read, and so we were followed."

"I don't understand –" I started, then added suddenly, "Wait, _our_ pursuer? You were with him when it happened?"

"When he was shot, yes. He sent me on ahead after that."

"To seek help?"

"To take me out of danger."

With as much brevity and discretion as possible, she recounted to me the tale of what had happened to them, to Erik alone the night they made their attempt to return to Paris to prepare to leave France in the days following. Their plan had seemed both simple yet foolproof – everything had gone right for them, everything according to plan until the Gypsy from Erik's past chose to make himself known. I listened to her story in abject disbelief and mingled, growing fear. Her involvement with Erik had put her directly in harm's way, and certainly not for the first time since their association with one another began. He himself hadn't harmed her that night or at all since their reunion, as I had feared he might still be capable. He hadn't lost his temper or done something as foolish as in the past; it was obvious by his willingness to send her away with his weapon even though he was badly injured that she was correct in the assertion that he indeed meant her no harm. But the danger presented left me uneasy just the same. Would it always be like that for her? For them? I stifled the shudder I felt at the thought.

Even beyond that I was left absolutely shocked when Christine explained the circumstances which led to the attack in the first place, the conditions in which Erik had been made to survive and endure as a youth. I had no reason to believe what she was saying wasn't true, and that alone was painful to acknowledge. My own childhood had been happy, carefree – the kind of upbringing appropriate to any child and then some. I could never be so ungrateful as to not realize that I had been blessed indeed, but still I cursed myself for not entirely realizing that so many others would never be as fortunate. And even Christine, growing up nearly impoverished and always traveling to and fro, had at the very least known the love of a family; she was always granted the protection of the people whose very duty it is to look after those too young and helpless to do so for themselves. Erik didn't have that kind of life – probably not ever, or at least not for very long. What he had known was pure suffering. He had lived through Hell, yet still made one mighty attempt after another to rise above that bleak life, even if those attempts were unconventional at best. An urgent pity, a feeling akin to true empathy began to creep into my heart for the man I had once thought of as only a creature of evil and blackness.

Suddenly, the hellish experience of our final, fearsome days in the opera house began to make more sense, a new understanding coming to light within my consciousness; the reason for Erik's downfall now seemed far less intentionally sinister. As Christine had said, his actions could not necessarily be condoned, but no longer were their origins to be blamed solely on evilness or madness. Rather, I saw before my mind's eye the life of a child cast to the winds, a young man whose only means of rescue was in the form of desperate and violent actions and one singular, merciful gesture by a young Madame Giry. And even so, from what Christine has observed and shared with me, what could have been Erik's saving grace through the small semblance of a family was shunned away – he didn't know how to belong in a family, and therefore rejected the notion entirely. His life was from then on defined by a loneliness so deep that, had he not met Christine, he would likely have sunken into darkness and despair altogether, never to be saved by his own will or any outsider's intervention. I had not once seen this side of his story so clearly before.

How I wished that I had, for so much pain might have been avoided. I felt terribly guilty then. But more so, I felt that empathy, only whispering to my heart before, settle within me at full force. It was a sadness on another's behalf that I never thought imaginable.

"I never knew he felt remorse over the whole affair," I said dimly, "I'm ashamed to admit it, but I thought him quite incapable of such a quality."

"We all did, for a long time. That's part of why I went back to him in the first place, to get answers to those very concerns myself."

"At least you uncovered the truth."

"It was a blessing. We fought hard to come together, but it was worth it. I knew from then on that I had nothing to fear, that what plagued me before was born of naivety and misunderstanding," she laughed and added, "As they say, the truth shall set you free. Isn't that how it goes?"

I sighed as I realized what must be said, and went on rather abruptly, "Oh, Christine, I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you today. I've told a half-truth, and I'm truly sorry for that. Yes, I came here to seek the truth behind the article, to comfort you if it had been true, but there was more that compelled me. Hearing what I have now, knowing what I now know, I realize that I've been quite uncaring. I only…I only hope you can forgive me," I stammered and trailed off, not knowing how to move forward after all.

"Raoul, take a breath. Collect your thoughts. What is it that you mean to say? I won't be angry," she added kindly.

"I had been so fearful for your safety, if you were indeed still with him, fearful that he'd hurt you. That history would repeat itself, so to speak. I was wholly prepared to help you escape that madness once again, because I sincerely believed he might still somehow harm you."

"And now?"

"Now I see that such fear was entirely unnecessary. I had never known the whole story, all that was behind his actions. Madame Giry told me what I needed to know in order to survive an encounter with him. I never bothered to ask for more information. I realize now that your safety is as paramount to him as it is to me. I realize that I no longer have to fight him to save you, nor do I have to fear him."

She considered me before asking, "And why do you think that is? That you no longer have to fear him."

"Because at last I see his humanity."

I made that last admission almost without thinking, shocked at my words the moment they were put forth. It was true – I no longer had to fear him, no longer had to anticipate a battle of minds and hearts. He didn't remain a figure of terror to me. All this because I finally regarded us both on equal footing, saw him as a man no different from myself – not where it mattered. Our origins, our upbringings, our entire outlooks on life were vastly different, but in the end we were both the owners of beating hearts. We were both but humans, prone to greatness and downfalls, to joy and sorrow – yet it had taken me until that very day, that singular conversation, to entirely comprehend that fact. Had Erik not been so cursed and absolutely hated by humanity, had his mind not been warped for reasons utterly beyond his control, I daresay he could have been a formidable contender for Christine's heart of his own merit alone. But even with the reality of the circumstances, his humanity was no less apparent.

In coming to terms with such new understanding, in acknowledging all of this, I realized that I could neither hate nor fear him. We were in love with the same woman, but he was no more undeserving at a fair chance at happiness than I was. I saw us as equals, but no longer could I see his masked face in my memories and be convinced that I beheld a monster. It simply was not true.

"Raoul, are you alright?"

"I am," I breathed, "Christine, are you happy here? Are you happy with your life?"

She seemed surprised at my sudden line of questions, but she smiled as she responded, "Yes, I truly am."

I exhaled, knowing that once again she spoke the truth, "Then I too shall be happy. I would like you to know that."

"Thank you. Thank you again for everything, for allowing yourself to understand Erik. All that you've done for me will not be forgotten."

"If, in the end, we all survived, if we all found what we needed, then I should say it was all worth it. We should all be so lucky," I mused.

She smiled again, and shook her head as if trying to come to her senses, "I'm afraid I've been quite rude, for all my attempts not to act so. I haven't asked about you hardly at all. So, now that we seem to have finally cleared the air, I shall remember my manners. How are you, Raoul? Beyond this moment. Is your life well?"

"You know, there were times that I worried myself into a frenzy. Over you, over everything. But I've come to realize that it's just another part of life, part of my life."

"The worry?"

"No. The experiences. And I think now that such happenings are very good things. So I can say, yes, I am quite well," I added with an emphasizing nod, "All is well."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"I hope it will be the same for you."

"Would you like an invitation? To the wedding, I mean. I don't want you thinking you're unwelcome."

"Wouldn't your fiancé have an objection or two?" I teased.

"Not likely," Erik said casually from the doorway, causing us to jump in surprise.

"How long have you been there?" Christine asked with a laugh as she approached him, "What did I say earlier about you lingering about?"

"I only just got here. I haven't been _lingering_ , thank you. I was sent here, if you must know," then to me directly, "Vicomte, Madame Giry wishes for you to see her in her study when you've finished speaking to Christine."

"Thank you, I shall see to it that I go to her before I leave," I sighed before continuing, "On that note, I'm afraid I should be taking my leave soon. I've worn out my welcome."

"Not at all!" Christine responded firmly, "I'll hear none of that. Please, do just stay awhile longer. Have some tea with us, at least."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid I must decline. I jest when I say I've worn out my welcome, but truth be told I really should be going soon. I've an engagement with my family to prepare for, and I'm afraid I'm rather behind in such social matters. I'll never hear the end of it if I don't meet my responsibilities, as you well know."

"If you're sure. Another time then," she added determinedly, "But you never answered my question. Would you like an invitation to our wedding? I do hope that you'll attend."

"I shall try my best to be there. Please, send me an invitation, I shall be honored to receive it."

"Thank you. Expect it soon, then," Christine replied with a smile.

"'It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it'," Erik said softly, not moving from Christine's side as he addressed me, "Aristotle said that. This cannot be easy for you. Thank you for being so good to her. And," he added with a sly and jovial grin, "thank you for not killing me on sight."

"I could extend the same sentiment to you."

"Touché. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got work that requires my attention. Take care," he nodded in my direction, then said to Christine, "Come find me when you've finished here, will you?"

She smiled and nodded her response as he returned the expression and briefly laid his uninjured hand upon her shoulder. I realized then that my nagging and undefined thoughts from before served not as a warning of imminent danger, but rather a call to action, something deep within my consciousness that implored me to _see_.

What I witnessed just then between them took place in the briefest of moments, yet still left no room for lingering doubts as to how right she had been in her decision. Two people could not look upon one another that way and _not_ be meant to be together. It simply wasn't possible. Christine had been wise in her words to me before her departure – our own love would not have withstood the test of time. It was the love of a childhood, the love of a friendship born of dedication and trust, but I understood then that there was little else to it where it counted. We were not meant to be lovers – only the best of friends. Oh, I certainly still loved her in my own way, but I could see how it changed, how it differed. It all seemed very right, suddenly. In that moment I knew the real reason I had come to see her that day; on the surface, surely it was to appease my sense of duty and protectiveness, but at the heart of the matter the necessity of my visit was born of the need to see Christine and Erik together for myself, with new eyes, to know and understand that all was well and that our collective choices had led not to the moment of our parting or any as yet unseen disasters, but rather the dawning of a new respect. A new friendship was born of the ashes of one we were too young to comprehend in its time.

When my thoughts settled upon these facts, I smiled to myself contentedly, comforted finally by a newfound peace of mind.

"Work?" I asked Christine once we were alone together once more.

"Yes, he's been drafting again. I know Madame Giry told you that he was an architect."

"One of many talents, I'm sure," I teased, recalling Madame's description of his long list of skills.

"Of course," she laughed, "He's quite good indeed. He's planning to go into that field in London, you know, build his portfolio now while we still have time to ourselves."

"I think that's a fine plan. Now, I'm sorry to say, I really must take my leave."

"If you're sure. But know that you're always welcome in my home. Here, London, wherever life takes us. Your friendship means everything to me, and I cannot tell you how glad I am that it survives. I hope you can say the same after everything we've been through."

I embraced her then, laughing at how close her words were to my own sentiments, "I assure you, from the bottom of my heart, that the same will always be true for me."

We held one another in a friendly gesture of parting before she said, "Take care of yourself, Raoul."

"I will, as I hope you will. And Christine, I would like to tell you this now. I wish nothing but happiness for you both. I mean _that_ from the bottom of my heart as well."

~~oOo~~

"Madame Giry, you asked to see me?"

The older woman stood from the desk chair of her study, "Yes, I did. I had hoped to apologize before you left. My behavior when you first arrived, it was unkind. I'm sorry for that. With everything they've been through – "

"Ah, Madame, there is no need. I swear to you, I take no offense to your reaction. Knowing what I do now, it was completely understandable," I raised my right hand solemnly as if taking a sacred vow, "No harm done."

She smiled as she responded, "Then I thank you for your understanding."

"Of course," I paused before continuing, posing a question that had been on my mind since speaking to Christine, "I'm curious about something, Madame. Why didn't you tell me the whole story back then? About Erik, his past. I regret not asking long ago, and I do wish I had known sooner."

She sighed, "I had misled myself into believing that I was doing the right thing by hiding as much of the truth as I could, that I could somehow put an end to the whole ordeal if only everyone involved could make a clean break. It was a frightening time, as you well know. I was so terribly angry, so disappointed. I wasn't thinking clearly at all."

"None of us were," I said reassuringly.

"I regret that decision now," she continued sadly, "I have to wonder if I could have spared more pain by telling the truth, by acting in any other way than I had."

I considered before responding, "I think we all have moments where we wonder about such things. Yet perhaps, if things were different, we wouldn't find ourselves where we are today."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm one to believe that everything happens for a reason. Everything in its time, you know. Had anything been different, had any one of _us_ acted differently, I'm not so sure we would have ultimately found peace, found understanding. Not as we know it today. We all struggled then, all of us suffered in our own ways, but now we're better for it. At least, I can certainly say as much about myself."

She nodded distantly, "Perhaps you're right," then added with a smile, "Ah, you are a man of great wisdom."

"A new trait, I assure you," I grinned.

She laughed at my self-depricating humor, "Be well, Raoul – ah, I should say, Monsieur le Vicomte."

" _Raoul_ , please. We're all friends now, are we not?"

"Indeed we are."

"Take care of yourself, Madame Giry," I took her hands in mine, "And thank you."

"For what?"

"Guiding us all through this."

She released one of her hands from my gentle grasp and waved, "I won't take all the credit, but I thank you for your words just the same."

~~oOo~~

I said my final goodbyes to the Girys and to Christine, and left their home with no regrets. Knowing what I now did had lifted a weight from my shoulders that I hadn't realized had burdened me so until it was gone. I was sincerely happy for them all, could count myself then as one in their corner from that day forward. All was as it should have been, and my continued contentment drove me to take my leave with my own dignity and with respect for all others involved. Christine and Meg stood upon the stoop of the apartment as I made my way back down the road on horseback. I turned briefly as they waved me on. Seeing this, I rose my hand to my lips and gestured toward Christine, smiling all the while at our amiable separation. She smiled back at me and held her hand to her heart – her own goodbye to me, a memory I was sure would be treasured.

I wasn't entirely decided in that moment if I was going to make it to her wedding, wasn't certain if I could quite handle such an intimate moment between her and another man just yet. But I knew our friendship would maintain its strength from then on, and I knew that, should her standing beside her dear friend on those stone steps and smiling radiantly at me be my last sight of her, then I would go on in life a happy man.


	17. Take Me Close to You

**Author's Note:** _I'm baaaack! And so quickly! I'll be brief(ish) and let y'all enjoy the chapter - including a most delightful ending, methinks. So I gift this one to y'all before my work trip, let it sink in a while before the madness starts up again. After that trip, I'll likely have a solid and completed outline, so updates should be more regular. I know, I say that shit all the time. Bear with me here, darlings. In the meantime, please share your thoughts on this one, specifically the ending. I rewrote it...a lot...I love how it turned out, but it is my hope that it came out as nicely as I had hoped. Also, the title for this chapter comes from the song "Oh Love" by Green Day. If you head on over to YouTube and check out a lyric video, you'll probably see why I chose this song for the latter-half of the chapter. As always, it strikes me as very "Erik." Anywhoodles, it's a great song, at any rate, and marvelous inspiration. I do believe that's about it for now, but stay tuned! We're only just getting started. ;) Read, review, and enjoy!_

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Chapter 17 – Take Me Close to You

Raoul

I was not lying when I said that I had social matters to attend to; of course they were urgent, and surely my family would not be thrilled if I skirted my responsibilities, no matter what the reason for doing so was. But that fact mattered little to me for the time. I would return home eventually, to be sure; I'd return to my daily life of social outings, of bowing and scraping, of generally pandering to those for which I had through the years begun to lose respect. I did not wish to seem to be ungrateful for my title – certainly it offered me many comforts in my life – but at the same time I could hardly _constantly_ relish in the monotony of it all. So of course I would return to the routine, but the afternoon I left Madame Giry's apartment after what had proven to be an exceedingly enlightening experience, to say the least, I felt that I ought to grant myself a small reprieve from my familial obligations. So much had happened in the span of one conversation – I needed some space away from it all to let everything settle within my mind.

Now far away from the cacophony of the bustling city, I rode my horse into the countryside, leading him into a casual cantor – a steady pace onward during which time I could truly take in the air under a calming veil of solitude. The snow and ice of the harsh winter was gone, the breeze strong and cool yet relieved by the strengthening sunlight. I enjoyed it wholeheartedly – such simple pleasures were not lost upon me then. I slowed the animal to a trot and sighed contentedly, determined to hold on to my newly attained peace of mind for as long as was humanly possible.

At length, I spied another rider off in the distance. As the man approached, I recognized him as a close friend of mine.

"Marcus!" I called out against the steady wind.

"Raoul, I thought that was you," Marcus responded as he rode up beside me. We halted our horses' progress to stand near one another, able then to speak freely.

"Ah, did you now? From that far away?" I taunted lightly.

"Of course. You're the only one I know with an Arabian of that color."

"A Sabino, dear friend. You ought to know that by now," I jested with feigned insult.

"Yes, yes," he waved dismissively, "I do remember now. Well at any rate, I _could_ in fact see you all that way from here. What brings you out today? And don't rope me in with small-talk about the weather. That's all I've heard since it's warmed up, the sunshine, the blooming flowers, on and on – "

"– _Did_ you wish for me to respond, or do you really only mean to complain about the merriment of others?"

"I can do both at once, question _and_ complain," he boasted.

"True enough. Well, I wanted some time away, to myself."

"Are you still pining away over that chorus girl?"

"Her name is Christine, and I never _pined_ , thank you. And please, be so kind as to not speak ill of her. If you must know, I've actually just been to see her."

"Really? How did that go, then?"

"I'm happy to say we've parted on good terms."

He laughed, "We should all be so lucky. I've witnessed horrible vengeances brought forth by jilted lovers in my time. You're a very fortunate man."

I shrugged casually, "Well, we simply needed to clear the air."

"I've often wondered," he said thoughtfully, "how much of what they say about her is true?"

"I'm not one for gossip, Marcus," I responded firmly.

"So it is true, then?"

"Hardly," I said distantly as I noticed yet another man on horseback in the distance, though not someone I could immediately identify. I thought nothing of it – the good weather, and all.

"Forgive me. I had always assumed…well, you know how our people talk."

"Nobility tends to make people quick to judgment. That is what I know."

"Of that, I am certain. Honestly, it's a shame you two didn't work out. All scandal aside, I'm told she was quite lovely, of appearance _and_ quality of character."

"Oh, there is no doubt," I said proudly, realizing absentmindedly that the rider I had noticed was approaching quickly, coming directly toward us.

 _What odd behavior,_ I thought uneasily, but tried to brush the discomfort aside.

"Well, you win some, you lose some," Marcus retorted casually, not noticing my sudden air of equal distraction and confusion.

"You really are _quite_ the charmer. Did you know that, Marcus?"

"I wear it like a badge of honor, I assure you," he said with a laugh, "So then, Mademoiselle Daae is back in Paris?"

"Well, for the time being. She doesn't plan to stay long, though."

"Is that so?"

"I suspect the rumors are getting to her," I sighed dramatically, feigning ignorance of my knowledge of the truth, "She could use some peace and quiet, told me she wishes to move on from all of this. She's going to London, actually."

"Perhaps she'll find her fame there," Marcus replied, but was unable to continue his speculation as the stranger made his presence known.

"Did you say London, Monsieur?" the man on horseback asked us sharply, startling us with his sudden approach and abrupt question.

"Pardon me," I started firmly, not appreciating the curious intrusion, "But do I know you, sir? This is a private conversation – "

"– You're out here in the open. No privacy permitted," he interrupted audaciously.

" _Furthermore_ , I cannot see how this is any of your business. Your rudeness does not go unnoticed, I assure you," I continued firmly, all the while finally getting a good, close look at the man. With a start, I realized I was speaking to a Gypsy. Something prickled at the back of my mind, an instinctive insistence to be aware, to remember…

Suddenly I realized to whom I was speaking. It was the Gypsy by the name of Vito of which Christine had spoken just hours before. It was the man that had followed and attacked her and Erik, had shot Erik with the intention of killing him. Christine's words echoed in my mind; when Vito had proven unsuccessful in his violent, vengeful endeavor, he meant to seek out Christine instead. The Gypsy knew that harming Christine would cause Erik more pain than any bullet ever could. Being shot in the heart would have hurt far less than seeing her punished on his behalf. I shuddered at the thought, and knew then that I was indeed speaking to a most evil man. I understood then that he had likely followed me that day as he had done to Erik before. I immediately cursed my carelessness of tongue, regretted letting slip even what little information I had – in doing so, I had unwittingly set into motion something that might have proven to be irreparable. I might as well have signed two death warrants that day.

I could not let him try to seek Christine out again.

"You were speaking of Christine Daae, were you not?" he demanded.

My heart pounded as I narrowed my eyes, "What is the meaning of this?" I responded, knowing intuitively that I had to insist upon my ignorance on the matter. Doing so might very well save them, if not at least buy us all more time to evade further danger.

"I'm looking for her. It's quite urgent."

"What business do you have with the lady, then?" Marcus assisted me, not knowing the entire story but picking up on the grave nature of my demeanor. He turned his horse to face Vito challengingly.

"It's regarding a matter of great importance," Vito said flatly, "I need to find out her whereabouts."

"Whatever _so-called_ urgent matters you need to address to her, they cannot be _that_ important. If you knew her well enough to have any business with her, you'd know where to find her. She is a proper lady and does not associate with complete strangers," I said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I know what kind of sort she hangs around. She is no lady."

I suppressed the urge to strangle him then and there as Marcus spat, "You will _no_ t speak ill of a woman. You've no right. My, what dreadful manners you have, it's deplorable."

"Tell me where she is," Vito insisted.

"I will do no such thing," I nearly growled.

"I'll find her, you know. Your answers would simply allow me to waste no more time in doing so. But I'll find her with or without your assistance."

"You _won't_. Go from here, and so help me God, don't you harm that girl. Not now, not ever."

"God cannot help you. He cannot help any of you."

I bristled at his blasphemy, chilled deeply by his implied threat.

"Leave this alone or I swear to you that I will have the whole of France's nobility hunt you down and make you heavily regret your actions," Marcus said lowly, with a deadly confidence, "Don't think for a moment that I won't."

Vito said nothing, but regarded us with narrowed eyes – challenging us.

"Do we make ourselves clear?" I nearly shouted.

He only laughed as he responded, "This isn't over. Not by a half."

With a bone-chilling yell, he kicked his mount sharply, causing the animal to rear and bolt in a flash. My mind raced as I cursed myself again, this time for letting him escape. Had I foreseen this sudden turn of events, I would have been armed.

"And just what the _hell_ has happened here?" Marcus demanded, pulling me from my turbulent thoughts and looking quite startled himself.

"I'm not sure yet," I shook my head, knowing then that I had to take action, and soon, to somehow relay the message back to Christine and Erik without risking being followed again. At that point, I had no way of knowing when it would be safe enough to do so. I sighed as I murmured, "I'm not sure at all. But I know it isn't good."

~~oOo~~

Erik

I waited for Christine restlessly, and reprimanded myself for that restlessness. I knew it was unwarranted. Raoul had meant no harm, and had done nothing to invite my scorn. I trusted in Christine's judgment and had been proven correct in doing so. When it was all said and done, I could even admit that a truce had arisen between us all. It was a long time coming, a necessary thing, and my relief at having one less enemy in the world was nearly tangible. But even so, I remained restless, and my half-hearted attempts to busy myself with a distraction in the form of work did nothing to calm me. It was foolish, really, the echoes of old suspicions and rivalries refusing to rest, and I had to remind myself of that – they were only echoes. There was no present danger.

A knock at the door of the study drew me from my troubled, jangled thoughts. I stood politely and granted Christine entry, prepared to ask her if she was well, but I never got the chance. Before I knew it, she was in my arms, kissing me, and I could feel her smile against my lips.

I laughed when we parted, shocked by her unexpected behavior, "What was that all about?"

"I felt such a greeting was deserved. I'm very grateful to you, and proud. You handled yourself very well today, and I thank you for your kindness."

"Basic decorum dictated my actions, my darling," I said dismissively, "I simply chose to act on those principles."

"Perhaps. But as you said, it was a choice that you alone actively made, and in doing so you avoided conflict."

"Are you going to pat me on the head and tell me I was a good boy, then?" I chided.

"I might, but only to prove a point, should you continue to mock me."

I laughed again, "I don't doubt you would resort to such measures."

"Raoul has left. You may come out of hiding now."

"I wasn't hiding, simply maintaining my distance. I knew that coming here today wasn't easy for him, I've already said as much, but I assure you it wasn't easy for me either. We've never exactly met on civil ground, before today."

She raised her eyebrows in acquiescence, "Well, I'm glad today worked out as finely it did."

"Were you both able to say what you needed?"

"I think so, yes," she responded with a prideful nod.

"Then that is what's most important," I said as I gestured for her to take a seat near me.

"Have you gotten much work done?" She asked when we settled beside one another.

"Enough to feel confident that the day wasn't wasted," I said, though wondered absently to myself if that were entirely true.

"I think you'll thoroughly impress those Englishmen."

"That's the hope," I sighed, "We have to make ends meet there somehow."

"Are you still nervous?" she asked after a pause.

"About these designs? I was only half-serious when I said that, you know. I've no reason to believe they shouldn't be of help to us, at least get my foot in the door somewhere."

"I mean, are you still nervous about the wedding?"

I considered before responding, "More so about setting foot in a church. It's been a long time."

"I'm sure you won't burst into flames," she said with a careful playfulness.

I smiled but continued pointedly, "I have to visit the confessional before we can marry there."

"Does that bother you?"

"To an extent," I responded distantly.

"You know, the priest cannot go to the authorities with your identity."

"Perhaps not. I'm more concerned about the confession itself, having to relive it all again, acknowledge the violence."

That much was easy enough to admit to her. It had troubled me for a long time, even in the worst of my experiences when questioning God's very existence had become almost second-nature, a habit born of a bitterness accumulated over many years of suffering. Yet despite that time rejecting and mistrusting God, something about recounting my seemingly endless list of sins on hallowed ground still seemed distasteful, even disrespectful. I knew it was the purpose of the confessional, and moreover that we could not get married in the Catholic church without the necessity of my more or less officially rejoining the congregation. Christine had wanted to marry in the church, and although she never outright insisted upon it, I knew how much it meant to her to do so. I could not deny her that; so much of our shared experiences had been far from traditional. I wanted as many aspects of our lives as possible to be as simple as anyone else's. She deserved that much. But still, to set foot in a place where I was widely not well-received in past instances, to stand before God and acknowledge the wrongness of everything, well that was daunting to say the least. If I were perfectly honest with myself, I feared it would not be enough.

"You don't think you'll feel better once it's done?"

"Relieving my conscience isn't high on my list of priorities. I don't think I'll feel the kind of redemption intended by the practice," I admitted sadly.

She sighed, "I cannot tell you what to anticipate in the end. That's entirely personal, everyone goes about it differently. But I can hope for only the best on your part, and remind you, as many times as you need, that you will be alright."

"If you say so," I murmured, unsure of how to respond then.

"I do," she insisted and continued earnestly, "Thank you for doing this for me, Erik."

I smiled, "If it means we'll be married, I'd do anything for you."

We kissed again, this time lingering far longer and shutting out the rest of the world.

~~oOo~~

I cannot say that the priest which Madame Giry arranged for us was entirely thrilled to see me – far from it, in fact. He saw the mask upon my face, recognized Christine's name, and regarded us from then on with an air of mingled suspicion and fear. Once I was alone with him, he questioned my motives for being there that day; I couldn't say I blamed him. He had read the papers, knew what the rest of the citizens of Paris knew about our tangled involvement with one another, and from his point of view I was not only dangerous, but quite possibly mad. There was a point in my life when I would have wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment of my character, even boasted about it in an act of self-preservation. But standing in that church, pleading my side of the story and begging for his mercy and discretion, I wanted nothing more than to convey to him that I would no longer shame myself nor hurt Christine with my actions.

Thankfully, he believed my words with a simple, gracious nod and led me into the confessional. Going through that experience struck me as somewhat mechanical, the learned patterns and ancient practices born of many years of being drilled into me by a strict mother manifesting themselves even after years of disuse. I dreaded the words that would come from me, knowing that I would be obliged to be entirely honest if I wanted my upcoming marriage to be built further upon the truth we sought for so long. But even amid that deep dread, bearing that fact in mind was at least enough to push me onward – if I could not yet do this for myself, then the least I could do was make the effort for Christine.

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned…"

When it was done, I could not define how I felt – not different, yet not the same. I couldn't say then that I had a miraculous resurgence of faith, but at the very least I could move forward with my life knowing that I had made good on yet another promise to Christine. To think I had once thought that even the smallest tokens of devotion would be impossible to achieve.

From then, the next feat to be accomplished would be the wedding itself.

We had decided weeks before the wedding when it would be, where it would take place, every last practical detail addressed, but even so when the occasion finally came, I was certain that I would drop dead of fright. It was not a large affair, it would not be a long ceremony – I could scarcely identify or define the source of my fear, but still I felt painfully anxious. Performing never frightened me, an audience more often proved to taunt my temper rather than jangle my nerves, but this sacred event was no act. The marriage that I had once thought merely the brainchild of a delusional man was actually taking place – born of pure love instead of coercion – yet all I could bring myself to do was pace about the rooms beyond the chapel like a madman. I was repeatedly assured that such behavior was normal, perfectly healthy even. I made a mighty attempt to let those words reach me, to actually believe them.

Yet the pacing continued.

I had long since abandoned the notion that Christine and I coming together was a mistake. We had been through far too much, fought for too long, to turn away and cast it all aside under a foolish, misguided attempt to fend off further pain. There would always be pain to some capacity, some hurtle we would have to clear properly before we could hope to move on – risks would likely always have to be considered and taken – but it would seem that we had finally learned to accept those truths of fate and face them head-on. The rest of the time, we would accept whatever else came to us. Of that, I was entirely certain. If I learned anything since Christine and I found one another again, it is that we were now somehow better off – in ways we were only just beginning to truly understand. But even so, the blackest, most nagging parts of my mind wouldn't go down without a last attempt to conquer the light. For so long I suffered, jaded to any true and sincere relief – embracing even the smallest happiness was a feat in itself, and marrying Christine that day was a happiness on a far grander scale, that of which I could still scarcely comprehend. I had to consciously and continuously remind myself of my resolve, of that distinct realization that we were allowed to do this.

We were _ready_ to do this.

I stopped pacing and attempted to breathe slowly, attempted to calm myself.

"Tell me you're not going to bolt," Madame Giry said with only some seriousness, startling me from my reverie.

"I'm trying to _avoid_ the urge, actually."

"You needn't worry yourself into a frenzy. We've all told you already, this is – "

"– Normal, I know."

"Then be calm. Tell me, what is it that's troubling you, exactly?"

"Madame, neither you nor I have the time or the patience for me to even _begin_ explaining what my mind is doing to me right now."

She laughed, "I've no doubt of that. But whatever it is, _be calm_. Don't let it bother you now."

"That's the idea."

"You will be fine. Both of you," she paused and considered before continuing in a rush, seeming to be searching for just the right words, "Erik, I'm very proud of you. You scared us all before, you came from a very dark place, but now seeing the man you've become, I could not think of a better outcome of all the tragedy."

"I regret what I did all that time ago."

"I know you do, but it has all passed. It makes me so happy to see you as you are now."

"Thank you," I said simply, too touched by her sincerity to be able to say more to truly convey my gratitude.

"Of course," she said with a nod, understanding what I could not express, "Now, everything should be ready soon, we can start – "A knock at the door interrupted her, "Come in."

"Mama, Erik, are you ready?" Meg asked.

"Yes, dear, in fact we were just preparing to leave."

I stood without speaking, lost in thought at Madame Giry's words, realizing I had only one last thing to do before proceeding.

"Actually," I began, "You two go on to the priest. I'll be out there soon."

"Where are you going?" Madame asked sharply.

I rolled my eyes, "I'm staying in the building. I need to take care of something."

"And what might _that_ be? For God's sake, Erik, don't be late."

"I won't. And consider it a part of my vows," I called over my shoulder as I left the room.

I practiced my words, went over everything I wished to convey carefully as I made my way to the secluded chamber in which Christine readied herself. It had suddenly occurred to me, upon hearing Madame's prideful and sincere words on my behalf, that while Christine and I had certainly made great strides in our coming together, there were still some things for which I had not properly held myself accountable. Some words of conflicts passed should have remained silent, yet still they had been uncaringly uttered in a fit of anger and desperation, and I knew that I had never directly addressed them – not of my own volition. I wished to before we married; seeing to even the smallest detail seemed imperative to starting our marriage on solid footing. I only needed to find the words, the courage, to right still more wrongs between us; I hoped that with time those wrongs would be eradicated completely.

"Don't come in," she called out after I knocked.

"It's me."

"You still cannot come in."

"Are you alright?" I asked quickly, my concern piqued.

"You can't see me in my dress."

I laughed, "Is that all?"

"It's tradition," she insisted in a strained voice that made me realize that she had been crying.

"What's wrong?" I called out, hearing a shuffling in the room beyond before Christine opened the door very slightly, allowing us to speak to one another without having to raise our voices.

"I'm alright," she whispered with seemingly forced confidence.

"Are you?"

She sighed, "I just hadn't realized until a little while ago that some parts of this day would be difficult. Every girl dreams of her wedding day, did you know that? We all do, talk about those dreams with our friends, play pretend with veils made of handkerchiefs. Meg and I certainly did, as girls, but there was once a brief time when I believed my father would be here for this," she paused, seeming to need to steady herself, "His absence is very apparent today. I'm missing him. That's why I've been crying."

I cursed myself, realizing that I had been quite inconsiderate, "Christine, I'm so sorry. In all these weeks of talking about today, I hadn't even thought of that, of what this would mean to you."

"Neither had I, you needn't worry. I hadn't thought I would be as affected as I am. Some days are harder than others, the sadness can spring up without warning. I'm sorry, I'll collect myself. I just need a moment."

"Don't apologize. Whatever you need, I'll do it. I'll help you. You can have time, all the time you need. We can postpone if that's what it takes to ease your pain. Anything."

I heard a smile reach her voice as she responded, "That means a lot to me. But I assure you it won't come down to all of that."

"What can I do to help?" I asked softly.

"Stay a moment with me. Just hearing your voice has helped already."

"Then I shall do just that," I said as I laid a hand against the cold wooden surface of the door which separated us, wondering absently if she was doing the same, "It's good to thank about him today, even if it's painful. It keeps him here," I said softly.

"I believe you're right."

"We're going to be married very soon," I mused distantly.

"Indeed we are. So why did you come all the way back here? You're supposed to be in the chapel, you know."

"I wanted to talk to you. Apologize, actually."

"Whatever for?" she asked, confusion obvious in her tone.

I hesitated before continuing, trying to remember my carefully planned words, "So much has happened between us, and I know we've both been content in everything we've achieved together, but I realized that I haven't acknowledged some of the wrongs I've committed against you."

"I can't imagine how. We've been over everything, we've spent all this time uncovering truths, making amends."

"Not everything. When you first came to find me, I convinced myself that you meant to do me harm, and I said some things that I never should have. I let my bitterness and fear cloud my judgment. Accusing you of using people, of coming to me with ill intent, saying I didn't care what happened to you…I cannot imagine how that hurt you, and none of what I said should be condoned. I apologize to you for those cruel words. I truly am sorry."

"I recall you apologizing that night."

"After you slapped me," I pointed out with a wry smile.

She laughed, then seemed to cover her mouth before continuing shyly, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to take that lightly."

"No, laugh. I thoroughly deserved it. I simply don't think I took accountability for it beyond that point. And it bears mentioning now, because I was wrong for sinking that low."

She was silent a moment, considering before responding, "Your words came from a dark and terrible place within you that you've since begun to conquer. I accept your apology, I appreciate your sincerity, but I need you to do something else for me now."

"Anything."

"Promise you won't let your fears, that horrible darkness pull you away from me again."

I sighed, regretting once again how badly I scared her, how deeply my maddening and misguided desire to protect her from myself had impacted her. I never should have brought those circumstances upon us, certainly should not have thought myself wise in doing so. I had since guaranteed my dedication to her, my willingness to conquer the unknown with her by my side for as long as she chose to take that path with me, but I had only scarcely learned to combat my own fear, and she knew well of my near-constant internal struggles. She had every right it ask that promise of me again, and as many times as she needed me to restate that vow.

"I will. Everything will be alright, Christine. I promise you."

"I know," she said, a smile shining through her voice once again, "Hold on a moment."

More shuffling from within, and suddenly the door swung open entirely. She wore her coat over her dress, and I couldn't help but laugh at the sight.

"Isn't it a bit warm in here for _that_?"

"I told you, you cannot see me in my dress," she said with feigned insult, "It is bad luck."

"I don't think the fates would be so cruel as to enforce that superstition today."

"I won't chance it."

I took her in my arms then, held her tightly as she returned the gesture. We stayed that way a long time – we both desperately needed the contact. I pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, still amazed at my good fortune. She moved to kiss me, but I shifted just before she could bridge the gap between us entirely.

"Not yet. The next time I kiss you, I want it to be as your husband," I whispered.

~~oOo~~

As nighttime fell over the city with a veil of anticipation, the last of the parishioners taking their leave for the evening and therefore ensuring our privacy, our small party slowly filed into the chapel.

It was a simple, straightforward ceremony considered with the utmost seriousness, during which I was aware of little if nothing else beyond Christine standing before me. From the moment she walked down the aisle, I could scarcely take my eyes off of her. The love we shared could be felt in the very air around us, silent yet insistent, seeming to take on a life of its own and ever-reminding us of the importance of our presence there – reminding us yet again of how far we had truly come. I took the words to heart, understood the gravity of their meaning, but when the priest spoke it was only distantly; time seemed to take on a different quality, as if it paused and leapt forward at unpredictable intervals. I breathed slowly, held Christine's hands tightly, although whether doing so was a gesture of tradition or a desperate attempt to anchor myself to the world, I wasn't sure.

"Do you take this woman…"

 _Everything is alright._

"To love, honor, and cherish…"

 _This is happening._

 _"_ For as long as you both shall live…"

 _Be still._

"I do…"

 _This is right._

I put the wedding band on her finger carefully, measuring my movements exactly to ensure that I would not make a single misstep. I looked upon it tenderly, in awed disbelief, before meeting her eyes once more.

"Do you take this man…"

 _Breathe._

Time stood still.

"I do…"

She gave me my own wedding band, gripping my hand briefly and reassuringly once its placement was secured. I flexed my hand subtly, moved my fingers to test my hold on the reality of that significant moment – as if the spell would be broken if I didn't respond just right. The presence of the ring was a strange sensation, its weight unfamiliar, yet not unpleasantly so. I forced my thoughts back to the present.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

The priest had barely uttered his final words when I took Christine up in my arms once more, probably with more exuberance than was necessarily polite. I held on to her fervently, encircling my arms around her protectively, lovingly, only distantly aware of my surroundings as our lips met. I cared little about anything else but that moment. Kissing her had taken on a new meaning, a feeling coming over me that I had never known was possible – adoration could barely begin to describe what I felt for her; it held fast to my very soul. My heartbeat raced with new life, a hope beyond words. She held me as tightly as I held her, returned my kiss with as much passion as I extended, and I never wanted to let go.

From then on, I wouldn't have to.


	18. So Long and Goodnight

**Author's Note:** _Hello again! I once again apologize for the long delay between updates. Family emergencies, as usual, but things should get a little more peaceful. Or more crazy. No one really knows, amirite? Well, anywhoodles, here's a nice long chapter to make up for my absence. Seriously, this one is the longest to date. I had considered splitting it up, but decided against doing so. There were some opportune times to do so, but I liked having it all in one place, so enjoy the long ass read. ;) I hope the pacing and consistency is up to par - I rather had a lot on my mind while writing this. The chapter title for this chapter comes from the song "Helena" by My Chemical Romance, a song which I think serves as a good nod to the reflections which take place here, especially in later scenes. Lastly, I have noticed that traffic for this remains steady, but I'm not getting many reviews between chapters. I must ask, is this normal? My hope is to make a good quality read for y'all, so again if there's any need to bring issues to my attention, please don't hesitate to do so. Hell, even if it's satisfactory, let me know. I'd love to be able to remain consistent. I'm probably just being paranoid, but I thought I would ask as I have not posted phanphiction in quite a long time. To everyone here that favorites, follows, reads and reviews, thank you again. Your support makes me smile. :D Welp, I don't have too much else to say, so I'll let y'all get right to it. Enjoy!_

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Chapter 18 – So Long and Goodnight

Christine

After the wedding ceremony, my heart felt light – I was complete. We were complete. There was no other way to describe the feeling of bliss realized. Our wedding was small and simple; I wouldn't have had it any other way. After the chaos, pain, and doubt that had defined our lives for so long, the uncertainty that was sure to accompany the time before we truly settled elsewhere, the simplicity of our union was a welcomed change. A chill in the early spring nighttime air surrounded us as we slowly made the journey back to Madame Giry's apartment, giving Erik all the more reason to drape his arm around my shoulders. I received the contact as if it were the very air that sustained me.

In the wake of the proper, joyously tearful sentiments they bestowed upon us, Madame and Meg went on ahead of us, allowing us ample time to both remain hidden in the safety of darkness and to share our joviality in the moments following our vows. We chose the latest possible hour for our wedding to take place, ensuring that leaving the church would cloak us in shadows, the city having long since fallen into a peaceful slumber as its citizens rested entirely unaware of our delighted presence. We were quite alone and allowed utter safety once again. Indeed, we had grown quite confident in our ability to travel unnoticed and unhindered as we made our way through the city during the preceding weeks – time that Erik had intended to be as proper a courtship as he could provide. I cherished the memories of those starlit evenings. Our jaunt the night of our wedding was carefully planned, and as expected not a soul passed us along the way. We took our time, our progress slow and casual, often stopping to steal a kiss under the moonlight.

Erik smiled often, as lighthearted as I had ever seen him. A weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders, his unspoken fears put to rest – perhaps once and for all – with the promise of forever. The coming days would surely prove to be fraught with barely-reined trepidation and fear – our final journey away from Paris and into London loomed mere days before us, but while we fretted over unseen dangers of escape, considered every last detail with an almost obsessive intensity, I was reassured by the twinge of excitement I felt at the coming change. Our lives would certainly be different, moving on in ways we could scarcely imagine, but it felt right. We were ready to move on, had known it was true for quite some time. His near-perpetual smile was proof that he, too, recognized the gravity of our changing situation and accepted the unfamiliar air of normalcy for what it was – his ability to understand that he was allowed to simply enjoy the moment was plain, and I reveled in the knowledge that he felt contentment.

We lingered at the front door before entering. We stood as close to one another as possible, taking in yet another stolen moment of affection. He put his hands gently on both sides of my face, tenderly brushing aside the locks of hair that had strayed from their pins; I wrapped my arms over his shoulders, holding fast to the man that was now my husband. The light flutter of my heart returned at the thought, and not for the first time that evening. We looked intently into each other's eyes, partially in disbelief and entirely in love. He leaned in and kissed me slowly, deeply, then with less of the excited passion as our journey back to the apartment and wholly enraptured in his promise of devotion. It was yet another reminder of our vows – as simple and traditional as they were, each word held a deeper meaning, and I knew he would do everything in his power to keep those promises.

Time stood still as we kissed upon that doorstep, and it was with an unspoken yet agreed upon regret that we parted.

"We should go in," he sighed, remaining close as he touched his forehead to mine.

"Must we?" I asked only half-seriously, taking the opportunity to kiss him again.

"It's getting colder," he responded when we parted once more, seeming to need to convince himself more than me, "Let's not fall ill before going to London."

I laughed, "I _do_ think another setback would not be welcomed."

"No, not after all of this."

Erik rapped the familiar pattern upon the wooden surface before us as softly as was practical to ensure that the neighbors would not have reason for their suspicion or curiosity to be aroused. When we were granted entry, I was surprised to see Raoul standing up politely from his place in the sitting room, coming forward slowly to greet us. He seemed nervous, and I couldn't identify the storm of emotions behind his eyes that seemed to trouble him, but he smiled genuinely and I brushed aside the brief feeling of worry that tugged at my heart. I reminded myself that he _had_ been invited – it was likely difficult for him to see us then.

"You're here!" I gasped as I embraced him, "I didn't think you would come tonight."

"I had hoped to speak with you both, it is rather important," he said evenly, but continued with a lighter tone of sincerity, "But of course, I first wish to extend my congratulations."

"Thank you," I smiled, then gestured to the side, "Please, come sit."

"Mama," Meg placed a hand on Madame's shoulder, "Why don't you and I go out to the kitchen. Perhaps we will make some tea, give the three of them a chance to talk."

Madame Giry nodded and smiled upon us obligingly, seemingly content with our guest's formerly unwelcome presence – it was clear that she no longer viewed Raoul as untrustworthy, even if he was never intentionally so. I was relieved to know that there was no longer a reason for conflict where he was concerned. When we were alone again, Raoul and I sat upon the divan; Erik remained standing, arms folded in front of him in an unconscious gesture of protection, appearing neither standoffish nor playing the role of host. Raoul's sudden, unexpected appearance and serious tone at his request to speak with us seemed to cause Erik some worry, but he managed to rein in any hostility he might have otherwise been compelled to show. I was silently grateful that their previous encounter had left them with a new understanding of one another, a truce of sorts that allowed them to remain in the same room without the immediate desire to fight. But even so, I regretted that the encounter had taken away Erik's calmed demeanor, and I was eager then to discover the reason behind Raoul's air of seriousness.

"I'm very sorry you missed the wedding," I said once we were settled.

"Oh, actually I was there. I left rather early," he responded almost sheepishly, "I chose to sit near the back of the church, but I was glad to have been able to attend after all."

"Well, in that case, it's good that you came. I'm happy to hear it."

"I almost didn't," he admitted, "but I knew how important this night was to you."

"I couldn't have attended, had the roles been reversed," Erik said distantly, his voice holding no hint of implied insult, but rather a commendation, "Thank you for thinking of her."

"Of course," Raoul replied with a nod, then to me, "It was a lovely ceremony…" he trailed off, appearing to be unsure of how to broach whatever subject had caused his discomfort.

"What is troubling you, Raoul?" I asked gently, "You said you wished to speak with us. Is something the matter?"

He sighed, "Congratulating you was not the only thing that brought me here. Yes, something _is_ the matter, I'm afraid."

Erik's eyes flashed with piqued interest as I pressed for more information, feeling a sudden dread as the worry returned to my consciousness, "What is it?"

"The Gypsy…Vito," Raoul hesitated before continuing, "After I last visited you here, he confronted me. I think he overheard a conversation I was having with a friend. I think he knows, or at least suspects, that you're both going to London."

"What business of yours was it to share _that_ information with anyone?" Erik snapped, his mingled fear and outrage evident.

"I didn't mention _you_ ," Raoul replied defensively, "I only said what I did for Christine's sake," he turned back to me, "I had hoped to keep rumors and negative attention from you. Marcus is of nobility, he talks of the goings on in Paris among his own, and I was trying to evade the truth of your continued involvement with…" he sighed, "I thought feigning ignorance would help you both. I had no idea Vito was so near to us."

"That means…Oh, God," I breathed. As realization settled over me with the onslaught of new information, I shook my head fretfully and said to Erik, "He knows where we'll be soon."

" _Apparently_ ," Erik said with exaggerated abruptness, eyeing Raoul accusingly.

"I apologize," Raoul stated earnestly, looking at us both, "Truly I do. Especially on a momentous occasion such as this. But I know what danger this presents, and you needed to know what happened out there."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Erik demanded, taking a step forward.

"I wasn't sure if I would be followed," Raoul stood, meeting Erik's intensely steady gaze, "I didn't want to lead him here."

"He certainly isn't above hunting people down," I said bitterly, remembering our last encounter with Vito and trying to make Erik see that Raoul's actions were sensible.

"And besides," Raoul continued after nodding gratefully at me, "If he had hindered my progress in relaying this information to you, then I'm sure there would have been no way of anticipating the repercussions of what he now knows," he looked evenly at Erik, "I swear to you, I acted in your best interest."

Erik closed his eyes and sighed heavily, seeming to attempt to calm himself and regain control over his rising temper before continuing, "You thought it safe enough to come out here tonight, did you not?"

"I haven't seen any sign of him since that day. We've looked, Marcus and I, but he's vanished. I had to assume that was the last of it, and I knew you intend to leave France soon. I was running out of time."

"Were you followed?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"He has yet to come into the city," Erik said softly, as if to himself. I remembered that he had based the safety of our nighttime excursions partially on that fact. It had to mean something for us now – I prayed that it did.

"Does that mean he won't? Not in the future?" I asked hopefully.

"I can only assume so," he half-shrugged, the anger in his eyes dulling as his mind worked to put the pieces of new information together, "I don't know the reason, other than the likelihood of him not wanting to stand out. He seems trapped beyond its borders. But once we leave the city, we're at his mercy again."

"We have to get to the train station," I whispered.

"Take the train from Paris, then." Raoul suggested.

"Don't you think I would _stand out_ just a bit?" Erik retorted lowly, sarcasm bleeding into his words, then regaining his composure explained, "We had thought of that route. But it will be hard enough for me to board _any_ train as it is. The farther we are from Paris, the less likely it is that I might be recognized. Even if the majority of people believe that I'm dead, it's not worth taking the risk by doing anything foolhardy. I won't saunter about at any time of the day so long as we're in Paris and there are people everywhere. It wouldn't be wise."

"Erik," I began, realizing the bigger problem at hand and attempting to keep myself from panicking at these unsettling new developments, "Even if we make it to the station, he knows where we're going."

"I know," he responded with resignation.

"We should go somewhere else."

"Wherever we go, he'll follow us. I'm sure of it. He'll hunt us down until someone finally gives. I don't want to find out who that will be."

"What can we do, then?" I asked, suddenly feeling desperately hopeless.

Erik considered a moment, his gaze fixed upon the floor yet distant, worlds away from us, before finally responding, "I think we should go on as planned."

"What? Wouldn't that be giving him what he wants?"

"My God, I'm so sorry," Raoul said quietly, shaking his head, "I never intended this to happen."

"To be perfectly honest," Erik responded wearily yet with a surprising patience, "I'm not so sure he wouldn't have figured it out on his own eventually," then to me, "This would have happened either way. He won't give this up. If we're falling into his trap, then better it happens now that we're prepared for it. Perhaps this is for the best."

I shook my head, "But if he finds us – "

"– Then I'll be ready. I've already promised you that I won't seek him out, and as it stands I will make good on that promise. But if he dares confront me, if he hurts you, then I'm ending this. I won't have us looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives."

I wrung my hands anxiously, but nodded in agreement, unable to speak for fear of my worsening sense of foreboding alarming anyone present. Erik came close to me and brushed my cheek comfortingly.

"On to London, as planned," he said softly, meaning only for me to hear.

"Are you sure about this?" Raoul asked, measuring his words carefully, "How can you know what will happen when you get there, what to do when the time comes?"

"I am sure, and I know what to expect from him. I daresay, your slip of the tongue has turned out to give us the upper hand."

"You're not angry?"

"I'd rather not be. It's easier that way, believe me. What's done is done."

"Let me make this up to you," Raoul said abruptly after a long pause.

"I think you've done enough, _thank you_ ," Erik replied, his sarcasm only slightly less scathing than before, "I'm not angry, and your mistake has proven not to be deadly to us, but that doesn't mean I'm thrilled that this has happened. I would prefer to handle this from now on, if you please."

"I'm quite serious, let me help."

Erik measured Raoul for a moment, seeming to question whether or not allowing his continued involvement would be wise. Finally, he responded with thinly veiled wariness, "What do you propose, then?"

"Let me take you both to the train station," he answered in a rush, as if fearing that his offer would be rejected at any moment, "We'll take a carriage with my family's crest, and I'll drive so that no one else need be involved."

"It would take less time," I said slowly, "Not to mention doing so would arouse less suspicion on all accounts. We would be safer, in the end."

Erik shook his head and seemed to want to argue, but he looked at me steadily, giving me hope that he had seen reason. "You're right," he said after a brief, considering pause. Pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath, he turned and said to Raoul resignedly, "Fine. We'll take the offer, if it eases your conscience."

"Not by half. But it's the least I can do."

"Thank you, Raoul. We _are_ grateful," I said pointedly.

Erik looked upon me as though he was entirely unsure of these changing strategies, but conceded with a smile for my sake.

As the three of us solidified our plans for departure, Madame Giry and Meg returned and joined us in the sitting room. I was sure that Meg had overheard at least some of what had transpired, despite her mother's constant scoldings for the bad habit of eavesdropping, and I was grateful that she had ensured that we were given the time to work through the incident alone. The Giry's presence in contrast with the narrowly avoided crisis was a comfort after the fact, but I wasn't sure that such would have been the case had Erik and Madame Giry been in a position to battle stubbornness over the matter. The conversation would eventually dissolve into more pleasant topics, and although Erik appeared eager to leave the present company in favor of solitude, he gallantly remained by my side. I took his left hand in my own as a gesture of reassurance, absentmindedly running my thumb over his wedding ring. Our peace of mind might have been short-lived, but having him by my side helped to numb the dread, even if only to the smallest extent for the briefest of moments.

Raoul departed with the promise of his return to aid in our flight from Paris. When the door closed and Erik and I were alone once more, I found myself in his arms without realizing that I had moved toward him. So much had changed once again in such a small amount of time; my mind was reeling, my heartbeat racing in anxiety. He held me tightly, and I returned his fervor.

"We'll be alright," he whispered, "I promise."

~~oOo~~

Erik

Our wedding and the later discussion with Raoul seemed to be events worlds apart from one another. It was hard to believe that they had taken place within the same day – even within hours of each other. It was jarring, to say the least, but we had to take in everything as it came. I resigned myself to that fact, reminded myself constantly to let it be. It would have been all too easy to fall back into old patters of jumping swiftly into vengeance, and even despite the promises I made to Christine, I understood that I still had much progress to be made regarding my self-control. I wasn't going to hurt her by acting on my anger. At any rate, I was confident that we were doing the right thing on all accounts, even if I wasn't entirely satisfied with some of the realities of our lives. I didn't blame Raoul for his misstep, as tempting as it had been to put the onus on him. But no, in the end, such evens were set in motion long before his involvement – we were all simply players in a larger scheme, and each of our roles had to be acted out accordingly. Otherwise, not everyone would survive to the end.

Christine remained nervous, but no longer as outwardly upset as she had been initially. When we were alone together, when the worst of the storm had passed, we attempted to continue on celebrating our union and tending to practical matters. It was late in the evening when Raoul departed; Madame Giry and Meg had long since retired for the night, but Christine and I stayed awake well into the dismal hours of the following day. The clock ticked away on the mantelpiece, its presence a steady reminder that we were hurtling into our fate – a future that lay in continuing darkness, yielding fewer answers and still more questions of fear and safety. I wanted the confrontation with Vito to be over somehow, for Christine and I to finally settle into a life that even slightly resembled normalcy. I wanted to protect her. But I knew I had to be patient, to bide my time. Vito would undoubtedly choose to act – it was simply a matter of when. Acting rashly before that encounter could only prove to be fatal, and I wasn't willing to take any more unnecessary risks.

Even despite our attempts to busy ourselves, the haze of fear and the recognition of our ever-changing circumstances settled over us steadfastly that night, gripping us forcefully. So much so that I feared we would lose our chance at genuinely enjoying those precious first moments of our marriage. We had earned that much, and I made up my mind that we wouldn't let them go so easily. That much I could resolve immediately. It was well past midnight when I brought Christine tea in the hopes that its warmth would bring her even some small measure of comfort. I found her in the sitting room, partially engaged in packing her belongings while distractedly sorting through mementos of her shared childhood with Meg. A small wooden jewelry box stood open beside her, the final resting place of those cherished keepsakes which she chose to remain in her possession. She smiled at me when I entered the room and received the steaming chinaware gratefully.

"I should have done this ages ago," she said after a moment, making a sweeping gesture at the mess before her, "Meg and I tried to make sense of this the other day. I finally gave up and told her to go to bed, save herself the suffering."

"I recall hearing you two laughing from the study," I said amiably as I sat beside her.

"We accomplished absolutely nothing, though it was great fun," she sighed, but maintained her smile, "I will so miss her."

"I'm sorry that you have to leave her."

"No, no. Don't be. Ours is a wonderful friendship. Distance won't change that."

"Why don't you put this away until morning?" I asked after a comfortable silence.

She waved her hand dismissively, "I'm not a bit tired."

"We'll go out," I insisted, cognizant of my resolve to save our wedding night from its worried burdens. She immediately sensed my eagerness.

"Oh? Alright," she laughed, "Then where do you propose we go this evening? Perhaps we'll walk along the Seine. Ah, or visit those gardens I enjoy. I don't remember where they are…we'll find them again, though, I'm sure."

"We'll go wherever you'd like. You choose. I think taking in the air will do us both some good."

"Are you still upset?" she asked softly, taking my hands in her own.

"Not badly, no, but a lot has happened tonight, and I won't have you experiencing memories of a wedding night tainted with fear. No more dread or worry, we'll save that for later. Tonight, I only want to be with you. I want us to feel that happiness again, and only that."

"I can't think of a better way to spend my time," she said, smiling radiantly and holding her head up proudly, then hesitating slightly she continued, "I do have an idea of where I want to go, once more before we leave it for good."

"Where?"

"The opera house."

I felt my breath catch in surprise, but I nodded slowly and agreed to her request.

~~oOo~~

Christine had been back to The Opera Populaire on several occasions since the night of the disaster that I had set into motion – I, however, had assumed that my last glance at its golden façade, then engulfed in flames and echoing the sounds of panic and rage, would have been my _final_ glance. Returning had once been impossible, the very thought of it too painful to comprehend. It wasn't easy to leave the only true home that I had ever known, but it was a fate that I dutifully accepted – a punishment for my abhorrent behavior within its walls. I was taken aback when Christine suggested we go there; I had assumed that doing so would bring forth too many painful memories, even if we could manage to summon the best among the darkness. But she had agreed with what I had thought long ago – the opera house was where we met, where we fell in love, and even in bearing witness to such tragic downfalls, it was a place singularly significant to us both. We had to say goodbye.

The journey there was simple enough at the outset, entering the building yielded us no unwelcomed confrontations. Even though the new management was preparing to open the new season in the coming weeks, none of the employees or performers yet resided within; we were completely alone. Our footsteps echoed eerily around us as we wound our way through the labyrinthine maze of corridors and tunnels. Christine held fast my hand as I led the way, all the while surprising myself at still being able to remember the patterns of the ever-turning pathways and uneven footing. We spoke little, all conversation limited to quietly uttered instructions of clearing obstacles. Holding onto her tightly to ensure her stability, I was grateful that I was no longer obliged to wear the sling, my injury long since nothing but an unpleasant memory. The damnable piece of fabric and my extremely limited range of motion would have only proven to be a hindrance, I was sure.

I silently cursed Vito again for attacking us, thinking absently of how badly he had affected my life. The bitter thoughts toward him grew stronger as we descended further below ground, but I quickly quelled the notion that my woes were entirely his fault – at least as far as my time at the opera house was concerned. The disastrous events of that last night in that palatial building had been entirely of my doing, and maintaining that perspective seemed important – I had to be accountable for my actions that night. But still, it was easy in the darkness of those paths to allow my mind to wander into the bitterness of the nightmares of my past, all of which vied to blend together disjointedly and cloud my judgment. I had to actively remind myself that our presence there that night was as a last homage to a significant piece of our shared past, not as an avenue to bring forth more pain. I had to be mindful of my thoughts.

Navigating our way to my former home was challenging and time consuming, but not impossible. Before I entirely realized where we were, we found ourselves standing before the shore of the lake, its surface stretching before us with an unearthly stillness and shining like a black mirror. Neither of us spoke for a time – no words were necessary. Even if they were, I wasn't so sure either of us could find them. Returning to that underground refuge came with an ethereal quality – time, sound, and reason nearly ceased to exist there. It was all too easy to get lost in awe of its unspoken power. Perhaps that alone is what drew me there in the beginning; I was able to lose myself, to take my mind away to a place of my choosing where suffering was a lifetime away.

When my senses returned, I swept our solitary lantern over the scene before me. The images I saw were not as I remembered. What had once been my own small kingdom – a place of my own creation that I filled with anything beautiful to combat the horrors I had known for so long – had been transformed into a shrine of destruction. It was as if the mobs had created an effigy of the torment they felt, a reflection of the writing misery of my soul. For a brief instance, I thought disdainfully that there was no more a fitting sendoff for the Opera Ghost than to destroy all that he held dear. Flashes of agonizing and frightening memories plagued me unexpectedly, loud and vivid as if I had been thrust back in time – blazing torches and shouts of anger, ropes and knives brandished in bloodlust. The metal of the weapons glinted keenly with the reflections of their owners, ready to take one life, and one life alone. I saw shattered glass, a black and gaping tunnel opened before me that would serve as my only escape, had I chosen to take it. I remembered thinking that night that I ought to stay and let them tear me apart. Nothing else mattered from that point on. But in a split-second decision, I marched dutifully into the darkness with a heavy and anguished heart, compelled by an as yet unseen need to survive but convincing myself that I simply did not wish to fall into their imprisoning and vengeful hands. I felt that everything had been taken from me that night.

Christine stood beside me and tightened her grip on my hand. That gesture pulled me away from those black memories. It made me understand that I escaped to be ultimately reunited with her, to finally know redemption, before even knowing that we would find one another once more. Yes, I once thought everything had been taken, that all hope was lost – but I was entirely wrong. Everything I needed was beside me; she loved me for myself, despite the blackness that I had shown her time and time again. She willed herself to find understanding, pulled my own bravery from the chasm of cowardice and resentment that dwelled deeply within me. She helped save me from a life of dejection. That singular fact would never fail to amaze me.

Making a soft sound of despair at what she saw, she stepped forward slowly, breaking me entirely from my reverie. Taking in my surroundings once more, I resumed sweeping the light over the cavernous space. Everything was broken, papers lay strewn about, nearly all of them ripped and burned as if a dark storm had torn them apart piece by piece. Every instrument, all pieces of art, the books and candles, had been taken and damaged beyond recognition or repair. I was surprised that Madame Giry had been able to recover even what little she had of my possessions. Otherwise, there was absolutely nothing left. I sighed, but made a mighty effort to accept what was – by all accounts, it should have been a far worse outcome. Still, even realizing what I had, it certainly was largely upsetting to behold; in the aftermath of the disaster, I had never stopped to consider its effects. Without realizing it, I had begun to tremble, my breath coming to me in shaking patterns.

"We can leave, if this is too difficult for you," Christine said gently, "I didn't know…"

"I'm alright," I replied, closing my eyes in an attempt to compose myself, "They are only items, pieces of metal and wax and paper."

"It's bigger than that," she said knowingly, "This was your home."

"And I will miss it. But I will remember it how it was before this," I said, dismissively gesturing my free hand out in front of me, "And that is how it _should_ be remembered, when it was beautiful. I want to think of you being here, of our time together, not of having to run from it."

She moved to face me, "If I could, I would have changed the ending of that night. But not the outcome of our meeting that first time. I wouldn't want anything more than to be your wife. Please remember that now."

"I know," I smiled sadly, "I've replayed it in my mind countless times. You know how I feel about it. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you're standing here with me."

She kissed me, parting with a look of tenderness and understanding that calmed me, gave me the strength to continue walking slowly around the space. We came across several unbroken candles, lighting their wicks and thus providing just enough illumination to move about safely. We looked over the space a bit longer, but eventually resigned to settle together on the piano bench; we seemed to simply need to exist in that place together. We talked softly in the dim, flickering candlelight.

In time, we began to stir again, knowing there was still more space to see. Perhaps I'll never understand what compelled us to do so, but our need to properly say goodbye and make amends with the past drove us on despite the looming sadness. The smaller chambers beyond the main room proved to be ravaged and gone through, but far more intact by comparison. Christine and I went through them as slowly as before, and as the night progressed our thoughts turned again to the more difficult realms of the past. Yet still we knew we had to face them once and for all, if we had any hope of moving on from there. When we came upon the space that was once her bedroom, I suppressed a shudder.

"You don't like it here," she observed as we left the room.

"I am reminded of the first night I brought you here. Back then I used to think sometimes that it was the beginning of the end."

"It wasn't, though," she said softly.

"It could have been. It almost was," I said distantly, looking around me and trying to fend off the encroaching feeling of dread that always seemed to be waiting in the wings of my mind. I knew I had to face them, but I didn't want them to become my undoing.

"But it wasn't," she turned my head insistently to look directly at her, "Look at where we are now, why we're here. That certainly wasn't the end."

"I know," I conceded, "But it's hard to think about it now. These rooms used to be their own kind of torture, near the end of my time here. This room's emptiness meant you were gone."

I picked up a rose that I had spied abandoned in the corner, its petals dried and faded. As I turned it gently in my hand, she took it from me as she said, "Then change its meaning."

I laughed quietly, its sound escaping me no louder than a whisper, "I think we already have. Standing here with you now, it means I'm not alone."

"No," she said softly, "You are not alone."

Her eyes shone gracefully in the candlelight as she looked steadily into mine. I was given no less than absolute adoration in that gaze. She was right, of course, and her presence beside me pushed the nagging thoughts further away. In the constant battle within me between darkness and light, she would always win. My heart pounded in my chest, and all at once I fell in love with her again. The horrors of the past be damned, the rest of the world beyond that moment mattered little. I wouldn't allow myself to succumb to the darkness anymore – not that night, not with her standing before me and offering me the world.

Without another word, I pulled her into my embrace and kissed her. It was slow at first, but quickly gave way to a deeper passion, an urgent need to express the desires we had always held for one another. In that gesture, all else was forgotten; all circumstances, past and future, meant nothing so long as we were together, willingly wearing our hearts in our hands for the taking. We lost ourselves, moved on quickly. Gathering my shirt collar in her hands, she slowly led me from where I stood until she was backed up to the wall, never once breaking our connection. I felt her smile against my lips as I laughed, wholly enjoying her flirtatious behavior. I raised my forearms to lean into the wall on either side of her head, my fists grasping at thin air and bracing myself as she wrapped her arms tightly around me. We remained this way for a time, sharing deep and lingering kisses, our tongues meeting in a dance of exhilaration.

We didn't hold back. It was an intense exchange, a purely carnal experience that was matched only by our first act of intimacy together all those weeks ago.

I pulled away from her only briefly, breathing heavily in time with her own gasps, but it wasn't long before our lips met again, matching forces unceremoniously. I moved my arms away from the wall in favor of allowing my hands to move along her body, pulling her hips toward mine, feeling her breasts rise and fall in sync with our racing hearts, before finally entwining my fingers in her hair. Her arms came to rest upon my shoulders, gripping me tightly and seeming to need to pull us as closely together as possible. Yet still I wanted to be closer. As if reading my mind, she allowed one of her hands to stray away from my shoulder and travel downward – teasingly slowly – before seductively moving between the fabric of my trousers and my skin. I openly shuddered when she grabbed ahold of me, squeezing and moving her hand along with a steady firmness. I ended the kiss only to take in a shaking breath.

"You'll be the death of me," I whispered as I kissed her neck, my voice husky even in its hushed tone, "I'll never get used to this."

She laughed as she tilted her head and leaned into me once more. Our lips met again, but it was clear that neither of us wished to remain where we stood much longer. I led her back to the bedroom and we came to rest upon the bed, blindly sweeping aside papers as we went. I laid back as she straddled me, longing to move forward and be closer to her; I pulled at the strings of her corset, so quickly that I fumbled several times, but the misstep born of excitement only caused more easy laughter for the both of us. We undressed quickly, heedless of what became of the abandoned articles of clothing and only needing to be together. She moved to take my mask from my face, and it was only then that I paused, feeling an old rush of fear at the formerly unwelcomed gesture. She ran her fingers soothingly over my thin body as I brought myself back to the moment. She wasn't going to run away, I knew that. Taking a deep breath and nodding to her, I allowed the action with only the faintest lingering regret. It no longer mattered to her what lay beneath, and that fact gave me the strength to move forward with every possible barrier torn away. It was all for the better; I only needed to remind myself of her continued sincerity.

I positioned myself over her, taking the time to look upon her, to meet her gaze as she smiled up at me. I kissed her again, softly this time, before whispering, "I love you," and reveling in the moment as my heartbeat calmed. She ran her fingers through my hair and whispered sweet nothings to me; I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly as I took in her words. In those small moments before we became one, I knew peace, felt all the love in the world – so much so that I wasn't sure if my heart could contain it. Before her, I had never expected to be granted such humanity. When I entered her, she gasped and pulled me into another kiss as our bodies fell into a rhythmic pattern, our connection sending flares through us as we lost ourselves completely in the moments following.

That act of intimacy meant more than the consummation of a marriage – its deeper meaning was nearly tangible. Our time together that night was significant, her body beneath mine now utterly familiar yet enthralling nonetheless. The first time we had come together all those weeks ago and each time in the weeks to follow were beyond compare, our wedding night a culmination of those individual encounters and our love for one another. It made all the pain we went through to get to that point worth it. It would later occur to me that it was right that our wedding night should take place far below the opera house where it all began, but only then had it been the proper time. It was so different from our time in that countryside house barred from civilization. Any encounter before that wouldn't have been right – under former, more painful circumstances, our union would have held a far different meaning. It would have been a half-truth. We were meant to be together, our destinies entwined from the start, but we had to have the patience and the courage to let the cards fall into place as necessary. Everything had to happen in its time.

We remained engaged in our lovemaking – our first act as a married couple – for quite a while, the moments of our togetherness slowing and blending and rushing onward, swirling away from us yet keeping us tightly enraptured. We were both loath to let it end. I shivered each and every time she vocalized her desire or writhed beneath me, felt a new rush of passion overtake me as she held onto me or breathed my name. I kissed her, felt her lithe body close to my own and her heartbeat meeting mine in a refrain of two souls becoming one. And nothing else mattered. If my mind was clouded then, it certainly wasn't with the echoes of the past.

When it was done, we could only look upon each other in breathless wonder. We wrapped our arms securely and fervently around one another; I'm not sure who held on tighter. It was with regret but resigned understanding that we knew we had to leave that very night, despite our encroaching exhaustion. It wouldn't have been wise to risk making our way back to the apartment in the light of the morning. We rose from the bed, dressed, and made our way out of the bedroom and to the pathways that would bring us to the surface of the world above. We took nothing with us but the dried rose – a last symbol of a past that could no longer hurt us.

The act of going back down below the rest of the world so that we could move forward was bittersweet, but I cannot say that either of us would come to regret our time there that night, even if some of the moments had been proven exceedingly daunting. In the place where we met, where our fates were sealed in the promise of an eternity together, we finally said goodbye – both freed of its curses and grateful for its blessings.

~~oOo~~

Raoul

She was gone – they had gone away together. I had anticipated it, of course, but the reality tugged at my heart nonetheless. Still, it was a simply a matter of fact, a matter of choosing to recognize that all was right in the end. I accepted that, and I could not find it in my heart to regret doing so when all was said and done.

We met at the agreed upon time, their traveling cases in hand as Meg and Madame Giry bid them tearful goodbyes, all promising their continued contact with one another. We were indeed safe during the journey to the train station, far from Paris and the memories held within the heart of the city. It was uneventful, to anyone else we were simply another band of travelers, I in no obvious way was harboring a fugitive that was presumed dead, and that further ensured safety on all accounts. The moments ticked by steadily, yet the simplicity of the affair seemed to make the experience rush by before I could realize it. I said my own goodbyes at our parting. As Christine and I embraced, I distantly wondered if it would be for the final time – I wondered how far her life would take her from me. But it mattered little; she was his wife, and I respected that. Erik merely nodded toward me as a civil display of both farewell and gratitude, and I couldn't help but laugh, realizing that such a gesture was probably more than I could have hoped for. We might not ever grow to consider one another as friends, but certainly no longer were we enemies. That had to count for something.

It all happened very quickly then. They boarded the train to the coast, I waved them on and stayed long after the vehicle had disappeared into the horizon. And that was the end of it. All there was left to do from then on was to hold my head high and carry on with my life – it was all any of us could do, after all.

I returned home, feeling somewhat as if I moved about in a haze. The trip was long, seemed to take even longer returning to my family's estate, and I experienced a wave of physical exhaustion and emotional weariness upon catching the first glimpses of the property. By the time I walked through the front doors, the night had fallen. I sighed and made my way to a secluded wing of the house. I wouldn't cry, wouldn't curse my fate, certainly not after all I had come to know and understand in the weeks passed, but I hoped to spend some time alone just the same. I won my seclusion in the form of a quiet balcony set far apart from the main rooms and corridors and settled down with no more than a good, stiff drink and my reflections to guide me into midnight.

It wasn't long before I began to feel at ease. Ah well, the end wasn't quite as bad as I had once thought it would be. I took a great comfort in that.

I raised my glass of Cognac to the night sky, its vast expanse and glittering stars stretching out far beyond to parts of the world unknown. I saw Christine's radiant smile in the steady glow of the moon, saw the flashes of Erik's eyes in the blinking stars. No longer could I feel haunted by those reminders. Truly, the newlywed couple was meant to be as one; perhaps I myself was meant to be one of the daylight – one to be a part of the same sky, of the same world as them, but separated by time and distance. And perhaps that was what was best for us all.

I sighed contentedly and tipped my glass in what I hoped would be the direction of the sea, their route away from us all and into their new lives together.

"To you both," I said softly as I brought the glass close to me once more, and adding with a nod, "I wish only the best. Godspeed."

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 **Author's Note:** _I'm putting this way the hell down here so I don't kill the mood of the chapter's end, but just a thought I had earlier regarding the honeymoon bow-chica-wow-wow. The hardest part of writing this chapter? Trying to remain classy and mature while describing a handjob with zero direct references to dicks whatsoever. I am the Smut Queen._


	19. This Heart of Mine

**Author's Note:** _Hello again! I'm very sorry that it took so long getting this chapter up. It is relatively shorter than most of the previous ones of late, as ultimately it proved to be somewhat challenging to write. But in the end, I am very glad I was able to get it out. It is somewhat of a transition/explanation chapter. Early on in the piece, I noted that I suspect - through forum and blog discussions - that Erik suffered from a mental illness known as borderline personality disorder, and in recognizing that I have chosen to characterize him accordingly. As I mentioned, there was little if anything known about mental illness in the time during which this story takes place, and therefore Erik certainly would not have gotten the treatment he so desperately needed. Bearing this in mind, I felt that it was very important to continue exploring the effects of this disease on him as the story progresses; he never got treatment, and therefore the disease wouldn't have just magically disappeared. And it's a hard one to live with alone, trust me. When he mentions "the prisons of [his] mind," he is not exaggerating. BPD is hell, and it stands to reason that even with all that he and Christine have been able to achieve so far in the plot, he would still feel that deep sense of misery. He cannot escape it, even when happiness is there for the taking. That was once my life - sometimes I would wake up in the morning feeling perfectly fine then all of a sudden, BAM, depressed as hell wondering what the fuck was going on. I got treatment and am now glad to say that I can lead a very fulfilling life. Erik, not so much. Poor kid. But that's also why I ended the chapter the way I did - he could use a little break, especially when considering the whoooole lot of bullshit that I'm about to throw at them. But that's a problem for another day. ;) Anywhoodles, I thought another brief look at BPD would be an interesting tidbit in regards to my story. But moving on now. The title for this chapter comes from the song "Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash, which would be worth listening to if y'all have the chance. Of course it's another one that reminds me of Erik and his desire to do well in his life and for Christine. Finally, remember to stay tuned. We're a little more than halfway through the piece, and the chapters to come should prove to be hella dramatic, not to mention (hopefully) interesting. So there's definitely that to look forward to. Welp, that's about it, I believe. I hope that the pacing of this chapter was good, and I hope it was realistic. I strive to ensure that nothing comes out of left field or is too unbelievable, especially when exploring complex emotions and conditions. So please, read and review. And above all, enjoy!_

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Chapter 19 – This Heart of Mine

Erik

My mind is never truly quiet – my thoughts often turn unconsciously to places in the past that I wish to close the door upon forever, yet I can never entirely make that final step to do so. Saying goodbye, coming to terms with it all and finding impossible redemption for my seemingly endless list of transgressions, it's never quite enough. It's always there – that deep and troubling sadness and maddening pang of regret and displacement – and I am often left to the mercy of its powerful insistence. Yet as forcefully as my memories plague me and bar any sense of contentment I may so desire, I remain silent. I resolve to suffer alone. In doing so, I stand even the smallest chance of outwardly keeping the peace; I can remain in the light with Christine, only to give in to myself in moments of absolute solitude. In the stillness of the night, I am often overwhelmed, my life having so recently been thrust into an existence that I had never expected. I don't know what to do with myself, and as a result I am prone to allowing myself to believe that I was wrong, that perhaps I have been granted too much. To combat that notion is a near-constant fight.

The feeling of belonging, of normalcy and absolute happiness, so long sought out yet always just out of reach, was nearly incomprehensible once finally attained. In the few short weeks since we settled into this dwelling with the intention of calling it a permanent home, I had trouble escaping the idea that I still didn't deserve any of it. Perhaps that was the worst part – try as I might, I could not shake the nagging feeling that falling into the patterns of normalcy would forever be lost upon me. I cursed myself for allowing that darkness to seep in, to clutch steadfastly to my stress addled mind, but there it remained. I had no idea what to do with it from there, only that I wanted it gone forever. And so periodically since the time of our arrival, I stubbornly make a mighty attempt to combat my feeling of displacement by meandering through the house, taking it all in with the hopes that familiarity will quell whatever it is in my mind that refuses to let go of the past. I have to prove to myself that it is all real, that it is truly mine to keep.

The house is utterly silent – even my own footsteps scarcely make a sound over the floorboards. It is neither eerie nor comforting. It simply is, the soundlessness of it settling over me like a veil. It's like this every night that I make this journey throughout the inner chambers of the building that I now own. Every occasion that I wander through the silence, the air around me remains nearly as still as if I am truly a phantom, a specter moving silently through a dream. I walk around like a man lost, hardly able to believe that I find myself here, residing in this house that belongs only to Christine and I. It's a feeling almost lost upon me – I cannot comprehend ownership in this sense. For the few years I spent under my mother's roof, I was regarded more as an unwelcomed guest than a child in need of a sense of affection and belonging. Once I fled, I was captured quickly by the Gypsies, forced into a nomadic life of brutal servitude. I was trapped and tortured there; nothing was mine, nor did I want it to be. What I wanted came to me below the Opera Populaire, but much like the countryside house to which I fled after the disaster, the opera house was not truly mine – despite the manner with which I ruled over my stolen kingdom. Indeed, both structures were borrowed, both places of solitude and desperate refuge.

The house in London, however, _was_ mine, acquired without needing to resort to extortion or to escape from hateful people. Yet something about that very simple fact seemed too perfect, too ordinary, to be held onto for long. What most men took for granted, I regarded cautiously, as if my life would suddenly come crashing down around me should I make the mistake of a single misstep. It was fragile, to be observed almost reverently, because God only knows how long I fought for it and how little I deserved it. The house itself wasn't the problem, I knew; my heart's disquietude lie in the idea that even the smallest offering of normalcy was a farce, a mockery of every dream I had ever woven for myself and Christine.

The euphoria of our wedding would only last so long. When reality returned, it did so with a vengeance. Despite the long hours of reflection, the battle between my mind and my heart to see past the darkness of my life and embrace what happiness I had somehow attained, I could not let it in – not entirely. It was as if a dark shadow would follow me forever, reminding me of the horrors I had witnessed and of the acts of violence I had committed. Every chapter of my life had been tainted by that blackness; whether or not it was of my choosing mattered little. Finding redemption through Christine's love and understanding was something I was sure I didn't deserve, yet even despite this we fought to prove otherwise together. Over time, I had finally allowed myself to believe that we would find that assurance in the end, and through that I felt that I had found contentment. But my twisted mind turned that blessing into something hollow, as if I might lose it all in an instant. It was a looming, foreboding feeling that had only little to do with the constant threat of Vito's return. I feared over all else that I would never take happiness in any form for what it was.

God is cruel. For where I was once stripped of all humanity and comfort, I had at last found myself immersed in every chance at happiness, in a love that often left me in breathless awe. Yet it was still all I could do to keep the pain at bay, to keep the near-constant mocking thoughts away from my consciousness. I _wanted_ to enjoy my life, to sincerely and entirely experience the happiness that I had at last been granted, but I could not reach past my own icy shield to embrace it. For so long had I been denied such simple privileges that I had resolved once and for all to reject them for fear of worsening pain and defeat. When it was all said and done, I could not tear myself away from that numbed and cynical mindset, no matter how hard I tried. On the surface, I had everything, but even so it seemed that nothing was truly mine. That fact made me sick.

The more I dwelled upon it, the more I attempted to reject any notion that my mind offered that I would never truly deserve a fulfilling life. I actively reminded myself that my mind simply could not be trusted. I longed to block the past out entirely and to ignore my very real fears of a future of further misery. But even attempting to do so only caused more chaos amidst my already turbulent thoughts. As time went by, I had only succeeded in reaching an impasse – too frightened to look forward with any shred of optimism, yet entirely unable to look back without anger. I was certain that I would sink into another black and violent depression if I didn't do all I could to calm myself, to focus on each moment at present and only that.

The house is as silent as always, but my mind races with these reflections.

Without realizing it, I found myself standing in the parlor before the empty fireplace. Its darkness was suddenly troubling to me, ominous for reasons I'm sure I'll never understand. I took a deep, shuddering breath as I was compelled without warning to stand motionlessly on the spot, pausing by an unexpected, deep sensation of pure anxiety. It came about as if from nowhere – I wanted to scream, felt that I would begin to shake uncontrollably if I did not successfully rein in my emotions. It was not a new sensation to me; as the rage and subsequent shame that had plagued me for the majority of my life, the sudden onset of absolute disquietude was something that I had become resignedly accustomed to. It came and went like a violent tide, each time taking a piece of me with it as a forceful wave breaks stone into sand. I knew this journey away from the past and Paris with Christine wouldn't be easy, accepted this grim fate as simply another part of what defined my life, but with each passing day I grow more tired of the pain it causes. I've only ever wanted peace, yet as hard as I fought for it, such an idea would only last for so long. Feeling agitated, I continued to wander aimlessly once more, deciding that the movement would, in some small way, take me from the worst parts of myself.

The internal, silent storm within my heart passed and I was content, for a time – enough so that when I passed the room that I claimed early on as my own personal work space, I felt inspiration draw over me like a mist. I decided to go back to work, to sit before the drafting table dutifully until my designs were to my liking. In doing so, I am unconsciously aware that I will find that peace for a time – the unease will start again, to be sure, but for the moment I was content to lose myself in my work. It's always been that way, really, and it is one habit that I'm willing to hold onto if only for the sake of my sanity. Idleness of mind would only serve to bring me further harm; I have always been better off escaping myself through some creative outlet when all else fails.

It was nearly dawn when I had finally worked myself into an exhaustion deep enough to collapse onto the bed beside Christine with the promise of at least a few hours of sleep. Even at that rate I would likely wake before her – uprooting myself from my old life in Paris to this new shared experience in London had done little if nothing to drive all of my old habits from me. I slept rarely, ventured into the world beyond our doorstep only on the seldom occasions that my work required it of me, and held on to the most basic reserves of mistrust of society. Unfortunately, I had good reason to.

As far as the citizens of London were concerned, the need to conceal my visage stemmed from a horrible workplace accident resulting in my disfigurement. The lie came easily enough – my recent employment as an architect gave credibility to our hastily imagined falsehood. But even despite this, I wasn't received well upon our arrival, and even after making neighbors and colleagues believe the lie, mistrust was often directed at me. This experience only hardened me to the fact that I could go nowhere in the world without some curiosity leading to scorn, even threats of violence on more than enough occasions – the mask made me a suspicious figure, my unwelcoming air of resistance only deepening the notion that I meant to do others harm. I certainly wasn't surprised, but after a lifetime of such treatment, I was growing increasingly wearier of my public reception. The years living far below the opera house in near complete isolation did nothing to help me; I had become accustomed to living as a shadow, separated entirely from humanity. To be obliged to thrust myself back into its folds for the sake of making ends meet was jarring. I had been separated for too long, and thus the pain of hatred and rejection was magnified more than I had expected.

In the weeks that we've been here, I've tried not to grow bitter – at least not more so – but if anything my attempts to do so have simply pushed me to draw deeper within myself; it is but another factor in the unease I feel. For Christine's sake, if not only instinctively for my own, I do what I can to drown the anger out of my heart. I want only to give her the life that she deserves, and even in my darkest moments of reflection I know that I cannot do that if I am blinded by my fear and resentment. I will never be _normal_ , perhaps we will never truly live out a traditional life with one another, but I'll be damned if I let the hatred of the outside world strip us of our happiness once more – even if the very concept remains lost upon me. For too long was that a factor in our shared existence; I didn't want to live through that kind of pain again, nor did I want her to have to resign to that kind of life.

It is for her that I press on in spite of it all. Her presence makes the seemingly endless force of negativity in my life bearable, and it is through that knowledge alone that I am able to remember my promises to her. Without the need to fulfill those promises, I am all too certain that I would never break away from my internal misery – I would never be able to combat the darkness within myself with any modicum of success, nor would I be compelled to try as hard as I do. _She was the moon in my black sky, a beacon of acceptance and understanding,_ I often remind myself, turning back to a time not so long ago when I had to force myself to see her sincerity, that she was indeed a driving force in relighting the flame in my desire to live. And moreover, I've come to realize, she is my strength in doing so. I may be resolved to suffer in stoic isolation, but so long as I am granted the privilege of waking up beside her each morning, of talking with her, loving her, hearing her thoughts and her laughter, then I may be strong enough to carry on. If that is all I can do for her sake, then I'll take every fearful night in stride.

Christine sighs in her sleep beside me, effectively pulling me from my thoughts. Despite my exhaustion, I cannot quiet myself long enough to immediately fall asleep. But being reminded of her presence was enough to calm me once more. That night lying beside her, as every night we've shared, I reach out to her, grasping her unknowing hand to root myself back into reality – one that knows little of the torment of my past. My wedding ring glints in the moonlight, and I am reminded that I am hers; despite the ways my mind tries to betray me, nothing can change the fact that we came together against all odds. Only in those brief moments do I feel absolute peace, untainted by anything else. It is in those moments that it is easiest to remain in the present, and for that I am grateful.

Perhaps God is not truly cruel – perhaps it is only I that have reflected society's blindness to beauty for too long. I know only too well how terribly warped my mind can be, when I give its dregs the power to disturb my self-assurance. The darkness that had once served as a means of protection had become something that I feared would swallow me whole. But I couldn't let that be – I wouldn't oblige myself to look in the mirror and see a monster any longer, wouldn't allow myself to be regarded as a man undeserving of mercy. I didn't know how long it would take for me to come to understand and accept all that I wanted – I was sure that night after night would present the same battles of doubt and fear – but if each day I awoke and still found myself whole, then it had to mean something. I could hate myself and live in perpetual fear and anger, or I could allow her to love me for myself and find peace in that. I only had to make the effort.

I knew I wouldn't sleep for long, but the fact mattered little. I closed my eyes and drifted back into the darkness – this one devoid of the usual pain it presents – calmed by the knowledge of my determination that I would steadily move beyond it, if only to see her smile.


	20. To Be Free

**Author's Note:** _Alrighty my darlings, here we have another hella long chapter. It's the least I can do considering what's going to be unleashed in the following chapters. *shifty eyes* But I digress. This is another one where I hope the pacing is done right as so much happened in the span of one chapter, and that the events are both realistic and interesting points to properly progress the storyline. Without giving away too much now, I know I'm going back to many regularly used tropes in Phantom fanfiction, but in this case it couldn't be helped, so it is my hope that I was able to take those tropes and word them in an engaging and original way - at least as much is possible. Well, anywhoodles, there's not much more to be said regarding the chapter, just the usual reference points. First, I'm sure a place called Larwin Square does not exist in London. Rather, it is a location in Orange County, California that I used to visit when I lived in that state, and I liked the name, deeming it fitting enough to use in my story. And finally, the chapter title used here comes from the song "Taste of Ink" by The Used, another song that I suggest y'all check out the lyric video to, as once again I feel that it fits into what the characters might be feeling and thinking throughout the chapter (even despite Erik's usual emotional constipation :p). Welp, I think that's about it. Read and review - like, seriously, by all means let me know how this is going, I truly enjoy the feedback and would love to know if I'm on the right track or if anything can be improved upon. Once again, thank you all for your continued support. Enjoy!_

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Chapter 20 – To Be Free

Christine

I had awoken early to the sound of the children of our neighborhood coming through the open window, admitting their shrill, shouting laughter carried on a breeze which promised another warm late-spring day. It was altogether very pleasant – I had grown accustomed to such gaiety most mornings – but still it was not enough to rouse me from my bed. I felt ill upon waking and wished nothing more than to lie back, groan in misery, and simply stay put until the nausea passed. I had asked Erik for tea and eagerly awaited his return. The tea itself would only help so much; such was a pain I experienced that only time and patience would cure. But even so I looked forward to wrapping my hands around the warm cup and finding some semblance of relief in the gesture of my husband doing me a small favor. He was happy to do so, but otherwise clueless of the reason behind its necessity, and I found that charming. I absently wondered, and not for the first time, how long it would take him to figure it out.

My thoughts were interrupted by his return. He set the teacup aside and placed a cool hand on my forehead.

"No fever," he murmured, then moved his hand to my cheek, tenderly stroking my flushed skin, "I'm sorry you're not feeling well."

"It'll pass," I said as I lay back down, grimacing and making a mighty effort to quell the pain.

Erik settled down beside me, lying on his stomach and wrapping his arms around his pillow in a gesture of pure exhaustion. He sighed heavily, seemingly resigned to the fact that his tiredness had finally defeated him, despite his previous efforts to convince me of the contrary.

I knew he had been up nearly all night again, working at his drafting in a desperate attempt to calm himself, and I worried over him about it. It wasn't the first time I had done so, but he reassured me time after time that it was simply a matter of habit. Yet I knew better. Still, he insisted that he was fine, and I let the issue stand relatively unaddressed. But mornings like this, when his weariness was nearly impossible to hide, I fretted and wondered how long it would be before his practices would harm him. He reached out slowly and stroked my hair, his attempt to comfort me lending me a sense of tranquility. For the moment, I was able to forget everything outside of the calmness he gave me. It was a marvelous scene – husband and wife side-by-side, gentle touches exchanged as whispered words passed between us. I knew he needed moments like this, for rarely was he granted such peace of mind. It was difficult for him to let it come to stay.

On the whole, Erik was a quiet, yet emotionally intense man – a trait born not only out of years of solitude, but equally as a means of self-preservation. I had known that much to begin with, and our time together as I observed him at Madame Giry's apartment had prepared me to live with that truth daily. He was complicated, but never entirely unapproachable. He was as attentive to me as possible, but when it came back to confronting his fears and allowing me to extend the same comfort which he so wished to grant to me, he built a wall that was nearly impenetrable. It was frustrating to me, to say the least. I knew of his pain – knew how badly his turbulent thoughts plagued him despite his desire to be freed of them, his constant attempts to combat his own worst enemies – and I wanted to help lift him out of that sorrow. But he chose silence just the same. I knew it wasn't a jab at me; we had long ago agreed to do away with all pretense, opting to confront our problems as they arose, but his silence went further than that. It was more complicated than simply working through marital conflicts, of facing life's trials together. He didn't keep to himself for the sake of breaking that promise. On the contrary, I knew he did it in part for my benefit as much as his own need. I couldn't fault him for that, but it stung regardless, and I hated my helplessness on his behalf. He wasn't having an easy time, even after winning his escape from Paris.

Settling in London had not been without problems for us, especially at the very beginning. Oh, we knew it wouldn't be simple, of course, but the trials we faced were jarring nonetheless.

Upon our arrival, we briefly took up residence in a boarding house, mistakenly assuming that we could safely blend in there – hidden in plain sight. Erik had quickly found employment and concocted a reason for his mask, but still the other tenants became confrontational with him, rendered nervous by his uneasy demeanor and filled with misguided prejudgments born of a societal need for normalcy. To our dismay, the consequences once again begat hatred. After only a week, a few of the men of the house attacked him, threatening further violence for us both if he didn't reveal himself. He refused, and we left there that very night, opting to pay the extra money for a private room at an inn. That the ignorance and accursed curiosity of others had led to the dispute was heartbreaking for me as an outsider looking in, but it was hardest for Erik – not because he was surprised by his reception, but rather because he was expecting it. He always expected the worst from people; for the most part, that was all he had ever received.

Our experiences in those first weeks after our arrival only served as more proof of mankind's unwarranted hatred toward him – even in keeping relatively to himself he was targeted, and thus rendered miserable and bitter. The fact that he had gained employment and permanent residence for us was nothing short of a miracle. But still, after so many years of being obliged to confront the awful truth of his continued rejection, he had become jaded. As was his wont, he attempted to shield himself from further pain and violence, and because of this he drew further into himself. Unfortunately, doing so only served as still worse reminders of his past. He couldn't win.

I couldn't blame him for taking up his burdens alone. Such was not an act of pretense, nor was it a gesture to push me away for my own good – not this time. He wasn't actively sacrificing any potential for happiness as he had upon our reunion. Rather, he sought to find it, to allow himself to keep it, only to come up short with each attempt. He was simply lost to himself, strangled by his demons and the nagging fears and terrible truths that would never quite let him alone. He was wholly out of his element, yet he fought constantly to pull away from that darkness within. Where once I had to fight him to convince him that our hearts were meant to be together, that he deserved a far better life than he had led, he now had to continue the battle on his own. As sincerely as I wanted to take up that battle alongside him, I could not intervene – he wouldn't let me. He chose instead to suffer alone, stoically wandering through the treacherous mazes within his mind. I could only pray that he could somehow find his way out, to allow himself to shrug off his misery. I would never doubt his love for me, but I knew that he would never find contentment in that love among the constant presence of inner turmoil.

That much I knew, but could do little else for him. But for the time being, it was enough to have him by my side, and I had to believe he would find his way somehow. Time would heal him, of that I had little doubt. How much time was required was the real question. Until then, I would stay by _his_ side, always the dutiful wife, my heart beating in time with his. I knew a fair amount of the reason he struggled with himself was for me, and I loved him all the more for it. And so, despite my frustrations, I resolved to allow him his space in this situation, knowing that doing so _must_ serve a grander purpose.

His breathing became slow and even, his eyes fluttered shut after a time, but his hand never stopped moving. He stroked my arm in soothing, rhythmic patterns – it was a great comfort to us both, and, I was sure, what little he could grant to himself in the light of day.

We stayed that way a long time, existing in a quiet wakeful doze. Sunlight filtered through the doors leading to the balcony, casting the long shadows of morning that would fade as the sun rose higher in the sky. The breeze remained, coming through at odd intervals and causing the sheer curtains to billow, the fabric whispering against the wooden floorboards. I smiled as the children outside continued their raucous games, allowing my mind to wander forward and thinking distantly of how much had changed in my life since meeting Erik, how much I had never expected but was now entirely grateful to have. Always hurtling into the unknown, we would have each other.

My mind returned to the present as Erik moved beside me, sighing heavily once more and groaning as he rolled onto his back.

"I have to get up," he said ruefully, "I have work to finish."

"No, stay. You should take this opportunity and rest. Sleep, even. Lord knows you don't do enough of _that_."

"I'm not tired."

"You're lying," I scolded gently.

"I am," he smiled, "But I'm fine. I want to finish these designs today. After I do, I'll take a break. A long one. Alright?"

"Do you promise?"

"I promise," he kissed me before standing, "But in return, you promise me that you'll stay up here awhile. Until you feel better."

I laughed, "I will."

He left the room, and it wasn't long until I followed suit, feeling the sensation of illness pass as quickly as it had come. By then I was becoming used to it, and so I went about my day feeling a hushed excitement that I could only just barely contain.

Slowly but surely, our days fell into a pleasant routine as we adjusted both to married life and our new home. I gradually began to master the English language, in spite of my doubts at the beginning. At first, I relied almost entirely on Erik to translate any and all interactions I encountered, and as such they were few and far between. He rarely sought out chances at socialization – his motives for doing so quite clear – opting instead to emerge into the daylight and bustling streets only when absolutely necessary, but because of this my own acquaintance with London suffered. Over time, he was loath to have me obliged to remain indoors on his behalf, more so when I was able to communicate on my own. But this presented its own problem – there was still the ever-present danger that Vito might make his long-dreaded appearance into our lives once more. The reality of his vow of revenge certainly wasn't lost in our travels, and we knew we had to tread cautiously. We were not yet ready to trust that we were out of danger, but even that mistrust began to fade over time.

As the weeks went by and no such threat came to fruition, I grew increasingly more restless, eager to familiarize myself with the city we now called home. Erik finally relented – albeit hesitantly – and approved of my ambles deeper into the city beyond our neighborhood. Once given the confidence to come and go as I pleased without a single sighting of the elusive gypsy, I felt lighter than air. I was convinced that the conflict was behind us after all, that Vito's malice was but an empty threat. We could live our lives and sort out the misery of old ghosts with one less worry upon our minds. And so, as we settled in, adjusted to one another's routines and temperaments, we did so with a weight off our shoulders. Erik was visibly calmer as time went on, and although I knew he remained restless within his own mind, he agreed that my outings were the best thing for me.

That afternoon, I readied myself for an excursion into town. I had intended to surprise Erik that evening and wanted some time in the fresh air to steady my nerves. Our neighbor, a woman named Vera with whom I had become close – despite distasteful murmurings regarding Erik and myself – had intended upon accompanying me, but was detained at the last moment. I didn't mind – I could certainly see myself down the busy streets, and I was eager to make it out there before the rain forced me back indoors. A glance out the window reassured me that I still had some remaining clear skies, but only for so long – the clouds in the distance loomed, approaching slowly with the threat of a mean and unexpected storm.

~~oOo~~

I made my way to a place called Larwin Square, a charming little attraction near the docks of one of the many shipyards. Vendors, shopkeepers, and showmen could make a good living establishing themselves there, and indeed that had proven to be the case. That section of the city was the livelihood of many; the square itself was small but more often than not bustling with people. I myself had little interest in the attractions – it was the sea that drew me there most days. I enjoyed walking along the wooden planks, often stopping to lean against the railing in places where boats were sparse and the only thing before me was the blue water, the sunshine strong against my skin. It reminded me of Sweden, of my childhood with my father in our own humble seaside home. I hadn't realized until I met with the vast waters again how much I missed it.

I sighed contentedly, lost in pleasant memories and otherwise unaware of my surroundings. Everything happened very quickly then.

Without warning, I was pulled from my thoughts by a hand on my forearm, its grip relentlessly painful as it forced me away from where I stood. Too late I understood that a man was forcing me away from the open, to a place further down the boardwalk where few witnesses were likely to be found. I struggled to free myself as my mind pieced together what was happening. When I got a good look at my attacker, I began to scream. He was a man with an aura of darkness about him that chilled me deeply, his eyes wild with rage yet maintaining an oddly determined presence of mind. Although dressed more subtly than was traditional for his people, it was obvious that he was a gypsy, and with that realization I knew that Vito had found me. I had been caught unawares, utterly defenseless and alone, and I was terrified beyond words. He covered my mouth before my voice could meet the air as he pushed me against the wall of an abandoned building, but I continued to struggle, knowing that I was fighting for more than my own life.

" _Don't_ scream for help. Just answer to me," Vito whispered angrily, "Where is Erik?"

I said nothing, my eyes wide in terror as I fought my increasing panic. I knew if I lost my composure that I wouldn't make it out alive. And more, I had to make sure that my actions did not lead Vito to Erik. I opted to ignore his question.

"Let me go!" I cried pleadingly.

"Tell me where he is!" he yelled, shaking me roughly.

"I won't – "

"Take me to him!"

It was clear that he was losing patience, had no reason to prolong his questioning. He pulled out a knife and displayed it to me slowly, as if he were showcasing it to me for purchase. It glinted in the sunlight and I shuddered. He likely didn't intend to kill me then – not before he could get to Erik, but I suddenly realized that he meant to do me harm. Erik had spoken of the tortures he endured while imprisoned within Vito's camp, and I knew I would be next in line for that violence.

"Don't hurt me," I whispered tremulously, "Please."

He never released his hold on my arm – I felt trapped, nearly hopeless as I searched my mind for a means of escape, any possible way to evade him and find safety among the crowds once again. He slashed the knife against my other arm, immediately drawing blood. I cried out loudly at the stinging pain before he could move to cover my mouth again – a sound which carried well beyond where we stood, likely bringing more attention than he preferred. I knew then that I had been granted an opportunity to fight back. In his flustered panic at losing control over his game, he was caught off guard when I hit him hard with the back of my hand. He uttered several profanities in my direction and made to take ahold of me again, but with a rage and a strength I didn't know I possessed until then, my elbow met with his ribcage and I bolted away from him.

He didn't pursue me, and I knew somehow that he wouldn't bother – he was merely setting a trap, and I had inadvertently become the bait.

I made it quickly back to the crowds, causing quite a stir in my haste. Startled gasps and cries of confusion and indignation surrounded me as I roughly shouldered my way to the other end of the square. But I cared little about explaining my rudeness, I simply had to get away. I had to get back to Erik and tell him what transpired, to warn him. I couldn't let him be ambushed. I was distantly aware of concerned questions being leveled at me, once the onlookers noticed my panic as I moved forward. I didn't give a response – I simply pressed on, consumed by terror and determination and unable to think of anything else. Once I reached the end of Larwin Square, I gave myself to all of the energy and endurance I still possessed from my time as a dancer and ran home. I didn't look back once.

It was only when I burst through the front door that I let the tears fall freely, calling out Erik's name with a franticness that had him approaching me quickly.

"What the _hell_ happened?" he asked in alarm as he reached for me, noting the blood on my sleeve and my frightened appearance.

"Vito, he's here now, in the city," I said breathlessly, new tears falling as the recent images of my assault returned forcefully to my mind's eye, "He came after me."

"Where did this happen? Come with me," he commanded, a fury filling his eyes as he led me further into the house to a cabinet containing our supply of bandages.

"Larwin Square, by the docks," I replied in a shaking voice, flinching as Erik rolled up my sleeve and tended to my wound.

"I'm sorry," he said softly in response to my pain, working as gently as possible. His eyes were intense, focused on his task and yet far away from the moment. I trembled despite my efforts to calm myself; when finally I allowed myself to comprehend the situation, I wanted nothing more than to go to a place in the world where Vito could not reach us. The madness of his gaze flashed in my memory, and suddenly I was unwilling to accept that Erik was likely going to confront him. Far more was at stake now than ever before.

"I can't believe this happened," I said softly.

"I can. We got too complacent," he sighed regretfully as he finished wrapping the bandage, "I never should have allowed you to go out alone," he looked up at me and murmured with a tone of finality, "I'm going out there to find him. This ends now."

"No, Erik, you can't," I pled in a rush, "It's a trap, I know it is. I don't know what to expect from him anymore. Maybe we were wrong, it's too dangerous to confront him."

"Then what do you propose we do?" he asked, his voice raising, "Sit back and wait until this happens again? Wait until he attacks you again? _Worse?_ I know damn well that this is a trap, and I'm not standing for it," he shook his head, regaining his composure, "I said I wouldn't go after him unless he made the move first, and that has happened today."

"Please, don't go back out there," I insisted, "We need to leave instead, just _go_."

"This will happen again no matter where we. You know it will," he said as he moved into his office, retrieving the locked box containing his gun from a high shelf. Once he finished shouldering his way into the holster, he began to load the weapon with bullets.

"I don't like this," I said tearfully as he worked, "I won't let you go and get hurt. He'll kill you."

"He won't get the chance –"

"He's wanted to for _years!_ " I interrupted, my voice holding an air of shrill panic, "He won't fight fair. For God's sake, he took me in broad daylight, he's too dangerous. Please, stay here with me."

"Stop! You're not going to change my mind this time. _Listen to me_ ," he said emphatically and taking my hands as I tried to turn away from him, "You're right, he is dangerous. And he's getting worse. This can't go on any longer. He hurt you to get to me, and he'll keep doing so, you know that. I'm going."

" _Don't_. Please, stay here. _Please_."

" _No._ "

"You can't – "

" _Listen_ to me – "

"Erik, I'm pregnant."

He froze for a moment, his breath hitching and a look of abject terror passing over his features, before stepping away from me as though I had shocked him. He looked intensely into my eyes, holding them with his own and searching them desperately for something he didn't want to find.

"Christine…" he whispered brokenly, as if begging me to take my words back.

"This isn't how I wanted to tell you," I said softly, lowering my gaze from his, "But it's true. And I need you here, now more than ever."

"We can't…"

"Please, please stay with me."

"No," he said slowly, "This is all the more reason to go now. I'm ending this nightmare."

He turned away from me before I could say more. I stood in place, still too frightened by the horrors passing through my mind to do anything else but stare after his retreat. I heard the front door slam, its force echoing through the house ominously. I was terrified that this would prove to be our last conversation. All I could think of was the sound of the gun's mechanisms clicking into place as he finished loading it.

I knew the weapon would be fired, but I had no way of knowing who would be the victor at the finale of the confrontation.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I made my way down to Larwin Square and to the docks beyond like a man possessed. I refused to consciously think about what Christine had said, but her news still plagued my mind forcefully despite my efforts. To say that the day had taken an unexpected turn would be an understatement – so much had changed in the span of only a few minutes. I was terrified by the prospects of what its reality meant for us. It changed everything, but in those moments immediately following I had to keep her voice from echoing in my memory. I couldn't dwell on it – I was sure my mind would break if I did. I had to keep my wits about me, to settle the score with Vito; only then could I be ready to try and move on from that point. One way or another, this confrontation with him would prove to be fatal. I had to focus on being the man that survived.

The crowds had dissipated as the bleak and dreadful storm clouds grew closer. Although the innocent sunlight of the morning had seemed to promise to hold on for the entirety of the day, the blue sky of earlier had been quickly overtaken by a dark gunmetal grey that seemed to go on forever, hanging low overhead as it threatened to swallow the city of London in its wake. The once-pleasant breeze had transformed into a steady wind that only sent more darkness into the air. Thunder rolled in the distance, out far past the sea, but I knew it would only stay away for so long. At any rate, I was grateful that the ghastly weather had driven away most of the people normally about – I was determined that Vito would meet his end there, and I didn't want an audience. The wooden planks that made up the docks creaked below me, seeming for all the world to be the only sound around me in that hellish and oppressive grey world. Slowly, everything else seemed to disappear, the atmosphere of anticipation was absolutely deafening. Even the thunderheads had lost their ferocity in that silence, the violent waves beneath me seemed miles away. The environment was steadily growing darker and viciously eerier, somehow malevolent in its intensity – it made me incredibly nervous, as if I were surrounded by ill-omen.

When I was sure that I was quite alone, I took the gun from its holster, ready to defend myself and fight to the death to protect my family.

 _My family…_

I shook my head against my encroaching, warring thoughts.

 _Calm down. Focus._

Suddenly, I wasn't alone any longer – as quickly as the storm clouds had appeared on the horizon, his game began. I turned swiftly at the sound of footsteps behind me, my weapon ready to fire as I locked eyes with Vito, but even so I was too late. His fist connected with my jaw, splitting my lip painfully and sending me down quickly. The gun flying from my hand caused my mind to scream in anger – I refused to be taken down so abruptly, if at all. It came to rest not far from me, but as I scrambled to get upright again and retrieve my fastest measure of defense, he kicked me squarely in the ribs. I fell back against the wooden surface of the dock, clutching my chest and shutting my eyes tightly. The force with which he inflicted the damage to me caused unbearable pain; I cried out, certain that more than a few bones had been broken in the process. I was winded, struggled to catch my breath, but I knew I had to keep fighting – I had to regain my weapon.

I opened my eyes as I heard the click of his gun's hammer. He aimed it at my head as my mind raced to find an escape – _anything_. My thoughts whirled methodically as I let my calculating instincts take hold.

"You're a sick son of a bitch," I said viciously, resenting him for everything that he had done to me, to Christine, for his relentless need to ensure misery for all those that ever dared to cross him. I captured his eyes with mine as a means of distraction – it was imperative that he didn't catch my subtle movements.

"Go to Hell," he sneered.

He fired the gun, but as he did so I grabbed a wooden plank and knocked his hand away from me forcefully, successfully breaking his aim for the round meant to kill me on the spot. The sound of the shot split the air around us, the bullet lost to its target. He screamed his rage at me and made to fire again as I swiftly pulled myself to stand, but this time I was faster. A struggle ensued – despite the searing pain in my chest, I used all my strength to force the hand which held his gun high in the air away from me and losing all ability to fire with accuracy. He fought against me, nearly gaining ground more than once, but I persisted as forcefully as he did. Even after all the years that separated us, I knew him well enough to anticipate his every move, knew at which points his cold calculation would give way to drastic unpredictability. It was during his planned attack that I was able to gain a better hold of him. I hit him in the face, gladly returning the blow he had given to my jaw and distracting him effectively enough that I made to kick him in the chest and away from me.

His own weapon was lost in his efforts to steady himself, and I regained mine as quickly as my broken bones would allow. I heard voices rushing through the square behind us, quickly approaching at the sound of gunfire. I took aim and shot at Vito, seemingly before he was even aware of what I was doing. I made a mighty effort to ensure that each shot would be fatal. He lurched backward with the force of the bullets, flailing and crashing into the rails behind him. At his weight, the planks gave way, evidently too old and worn away to withstand the blow of his body against them. He fell into the murky waters below; by then the waves were crashing violently and pulling away from the shore swiftly as the coming storm finally arrived. A solitary clap of thunder accompanied a flash of lightening, closer to the shore than the earlier cacophony and serving as a final warning for events to come.

And then it was over – silence surrounded me once again.

Breathing heavily, pain gripping me with each inhalation, I stood motionless for a time. It happened so quickly; I was hardly able to believe that the confrontation had just taken place, that I had made it out with my life. I trembled, my hand went limp and the gun clattered to the boards at my feet, but I paid that little mind. Clutching at my side with one hand and slowly returning to my senses, I made my way to the edge of the dock, mindful of the gaping hole in the barrier and reminding myself not to lean too heavily into what remained as I searched the water for any sign of him. The current was choppy, a violent battle between wind and water breaking the usually still surface. It appeared clear enough even so, I saw no evidence that he had attempted to come up for air – if the gunshot wounds didn't kill him, the violence of the tide likely would. Anyone would surely have drowned trying to break free of its icy grip. But I kept looking out, dreading the possibility of him resurfacing.

The shouts behind me grew louder, and I knew I was no longer alone – I couldn't remain there without being questioned. I looked out over the rough waters one last time, scanning as far as I could see until I was sure he wouldn't come about. Nothing significant caught my eye – I could finally believe it was true. Vito was dead, of that I was certain. The sea had taken him, there was no question of that fact. No man could have survived the raging tides of that storm. I became aware once again that people were gathering at the docks, no doubt seeking out the source of the gunshots and sounds of violence they heard carried on the wind. Gathering my abandoned weapon, I bolted from my vantage point long before anyone came entirely into view, deciding to hide among abandoned freighter crates until the danger of my capture passed. I was alone, and I was safe.

I wasn't thrilled by the prospect of needing to hide, but it was simple enough to wait out the group – their curiosity was left with much to be desired. There was no one to find, not a soul left in that dark place by the water – so they believed – to be questioned about the altercation. When I was satisfied that I could emerge without being noticed, I retreated as swiftly as I was able, wincing when an overly heavy footfall jarred my injury. Even so, I pressed on, stubbornly willing a determined and steady pace. I wanted to be home.

I took one final glance back to the sea when the downpour began.

~~oOo~~

Night had fallen by the time I stumbled through the front door, wholly exhausted and in excruciating pain as I called out to Christine. She ran to me almost immediately, and without thinking I took her up in my arms before gasping sharply at the pain the motion caused.

"What happened?" she demanded, "Where are you hurt?"

"Some broken ribs. But that's the worst of it."

"Oh, God," she sighed, the fear still alight in her eyes as she asked, "Where's Vito?"

"Dead," I responded flatly, "It's over."

She nodded grimly. She seemed to know that not much more could be said on the subject and continued, "I was terrified. When it started raining, you didn't come home…"

"I had to hide awhile, and I'm not exactly quick on my feet right now."

"Your chest needs to be bound," she said insistently when I flinched at her touch.

"I know," I sighed, "I'm just not looking forward to it."

She led me to the dining room table and I sat obediently – albeit hesitantly at the thought of the pain to come – and began to tend to me once she gathered the necessary supplies. For the most part, we were both silent for a time. There was no alcohol in the house, absolutely no means of relieving the pain of setting shattered bones. I simply had to close my eyes and will the misery away while Christine worked gingerly to tend to me. It was no small feat to keep myself from screaming and writhing in agony, but I managed to content myself with a harsh intake of breath and a string of profanities when the need arose. The nature of the injury necessitated that she worked relatively slowly, and I dreaded each motion of her hands, as soft as she attempted to make her touch. I just wanted it to be over.

"I'm sorry, darling," she fretted, "Am I doing this wrong?"

"No, you're fine," I said evenly, keeping my eyes tightly shut.

"When I was in the _corps de ballet_ , we had to be bound often. Muscle strains, mostly, but there was always the occasional broken bone. Being lifted improperly during a dance or taking a bad fall came with all sorts of hazards. But it's been a long while since I've bound such an injury."

"I'm just grateful you know how to do this," I breathed, opening my eyes to meet hers.

She smiled, "Let's just be grateful that this will be the last of your injuries from Vito. Now we can move on with our lives."

I leaned my head back and sighed heavily, "Isn't _that_ a novel concept."

"It is a simple fact," she paused, weighing her words carefully, "Have…have you thought any more about what I told you earlier?"

"I've made a point not to think about it," I said sadly, but not entirely truthfully.

Hurt flashed in her eyes as she said, "I should think it would be welcomed news."

"It was…surprising."

"It shouldn't be," she said with a sly grin.

"We never talked about this," I shook my head, ignoring her attempt at humor, "Not once did we consider having children."

"Nothing can be done now," she said distantly and paused before continuing, "You're not happy about this," she said in a matter-of-fact tone that pained me to hear.

I looked at her, "I'm not sure _how_ I feel about this, Christine."

As she finished binding my chest, she looked away sadly as she said, " _I_ was happy, when I knew for sure…Are you disappointed?"

"I'm terrified," I admitted after a considering pause.

"Tell me why," she requested gently.

"Could you love a child that looked like me?" I asked, rather more abruptly than intended.

"You're asking if I wouldn't love my own child unconditionally?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm asking if you could live with it."

"You know that I _can_ , and not because of some resigned sense of obligation," she said defensively, "You know that I love you, how could I not love someone that we created together, no matter the outcome?"

"I wouldn't say it's that simple. It's a burden – "

"It's a _child_ , Erik, no matter what. A baby. _Our_ baby."

I was grimly silent before whispering aloud the thoughts that nagged me on my journey home, "That baby's father killed a man today."

"Do you regret it?" she asked, confused by my statement.

"No. And that's just the thing," I met her eyes, "It's perverse, but I _should_ regret it. Yet I don't at all. I killed someone, and I'm relieved that he's dead. It's a scathing lack of humanity. That should tell you all you need my character. I've no business being anyone's father."

She sighed, "I won't applaud the fact that someone died today, but I can understand that you had little choice. I can separate humanity and desperation. You don't lack humanity. You were given no other choice but to act as you did."

"Try as we might to hide it, the truth is that I'm a murderer, even if today falls under exceptional circumstances. This is not the first time I've had blood on my hands," I sighed, "I still have to wonder if we've turned a blind eye to the past, tried to justify it, to oversimplify something far worse than we thought. 'Speak no evil'…"

She was taken aback, but composed herself quickly, "I told you long ago that I do not consider you evil. And I've told you that more than once. What happened today was the culmination of years of tragedy and abuse, something set into motion out of desperation. What happened in the past was born of a darkness over which you had little control. We've gone over the facts countless times. You never asked for this life."

"That doesn't _change_ the past," I insisted, as if every conversation on the matter had never taken place between us. I was too consumed by my warring thoughts and the fear of raising a child to remember any of the resolve I had built up over the months.

"Can you still honestly say that you think you're evil?"

"I _know_ there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I'm not evil," I amended at her warning glance, "but certainly there's a madness within me. You know that. I can't just remain still and let things be, my mind won't stay _quiet_. Every night it's as though it's screaming at me to give this up, it's a dream I don't deserve."

"You fathered a child," she reminded me pleadingly, "You cannot allow yourself to keep thinking that way."

I shook my head, repeating, "I don't know what to think."

"Think that we've both been given something wonderful to look forward to."

"I can't," I sighed.

" _Will you_ , though? Can you be happy about this, if nothing else right now?"

"I don't know," I said evenly.

Nothing more was said – we simply looked upon one another, completely stalemated and utterly lost. With an exasperated sigh, she rose from her place beside me, an undeniably anguished expression playing in her eyes. She said nothing as she left the room, leaving me to wallow in self-pity as she made her way up the stairs. I heard our bedroom door slam and I closed my eyes, feeling a deep, awful regret at my words – my inability to put everything else out of mind and embrace the idea of our child was more hurtful to her than I could have imagined. I knew I should have gone after her, I should have begged her for forgiveness and said to Hell with every negative thought and memory that plagued me, but I couldn't bring myself to take those first steps toward her. I remained frozen in place for a time; ashamed of myself, angry that I had once again caused her pain, I sat motionless while everything inside of me warred to the point of collapse. At length I reached out carefully and held tightly to the edge of the table, attempting to rein in my thoughts and being entirely unsuccessful at doing so.

As time passed I found myself still unable and unwilling to make my way upstairs, only intensifying the miserable idea that I was a coward entirely undeserving of the life in which I found myself. I chose to settle on that thought and let it consume me for the moment, considering it a well-deserved punishment. Since Christine had gone upstairs, I forced away thoughts of our discussion, of our unborn child, stubbornly assuming that allowing my mind to wander to the future and to work out the current crisis would be a futile endeavor. Sitting before the table made me maddeningly restless, the storm raging outside serving to punctuate my discomfort; I had to be away from that place.

Dismissing my promise of that morning to take a much needed break from my work, I made my way to my drafting table in an attempt to regain even the smallest modicum of control over myself, knowing that my self-berating behavior couldn't go on forever – at least not at the forefront of my mind. I relied on the notion that losing myself in my creative outlets would bring me away from the worst of myself, even if only temporarily. But I wasn't there long before I slammed my compass down in frustration. I got absolutely no work done, the motion of leaning over the table to work proving too painful to concentrate on anything else for the time being.

With a sigh of resignation I left the room, aggravated that I had been unable to accomplish what I had set out to do. I slowly laid down on the divan in the parlor, bringing my hands to my face and attempting to have the motion serve as something else to focus on in an effort to combat the pain that held fast to my body. Wind howled through the night outside as rain pelted the windows, but its rhythmic intensity seemed to be the only sound around me. The house was otherwise silent, the parlor encased in an ethereal silence that stood out in stark contrast to the storm. It was in that quiet room, in my attempt to remain motionless that I had no choice but to consider what had happened that day – to confront each thought as it occurred and resignedly face the outcome, and as it stood there were many of them vying for a space at the center stage of my mind.

We should have been celebrating – even if reservedly and figuratively so – the fact that we had at last learned our freedom, after all the time spent suffering and living in fear of the very threat that had been eradicated on those dark and silent docks. No longer would we be forced to look over our shoulders, always wondering if Vito lie in wait to snuff out the flame of our existence. It was simply _over_ , as suddenly as he had reappeared in London, and it was a burden gladly relinquished. We were free, and with that freedom we were given the chance to live our lives together as we had always desired and to raise our child without the added fear of attack from a violent and vengeful ghost of my past. To raise a child in the first place would be difficult enough without _that_ factor, I was sure; but the truth remained that, no matter what, we were going to have a child.

I would have a family – there was no question of that statement of fact. And therein was the more pressing source of my disquietude – the child, a family of my own. It was a notion completely foreign to me. Before that day, I had no remaining blood relations, not a single person in the world that shared that connection with me. Even amid my inner turmoil and unbidden dread at the as yet unseen conflicts of that life, I knew that Christine was giving me a monumental gift. But to my dismay I still couldn't take a breath and let it be, couldn't elicit a favorable emotion at the prospect for long.

I was terrified, and utterly lost.

It came to be that I had been given everything I had wanted with an aching desperation for so long – simple things which average men took for granted. My gratitude was overwhelming, to be sure, but equally as forceful was the sense that I deserved nothing. I had been born a monster; broken and defeated long before my time, life hurtled me in directions I never wanted to go, only to twist my mind into something mangled, distrusting, and nearly unrecognizable as I was almost lost to myself and the rest of humanity more than once. There was a time when I was merely a violent shadow, incapable of compassion or sympathy and better off separated from society, eyeing it maliciously from the wings. By all reason, I should have remained that way. Yet somehow, _somehow_ in spite of it all I had been given the privilege of calling Christine my wife, of earning a love and understanding that would culminate in the whispering of a brand-new life. But still I approached that life with caution, convinced that it and everything I loved would all come crashing down around me. I certainly didn't have a handle on myself, for rationally I knew that my maddening doubts were absurd, that the blackness of my past was the result of circumstances largely beyond my control, yet time and time again I defeated myself. I gave myself to the bitterness and misery I longed to destroy. It didn't seem fit that I could take my child up and give it the upbringing that all children deserved. I wasn't sure I knew how.

I touched my hand to the concealed side of my face as I wandered through these reflections. When my fingers came into contact with the smooth material, the cold reminder of the horrors beneath, I barely suppressed a shudder of rage as I remembered all the pain throughout the years and loathing the chance that a child of mine might suffer society's unrelenting ignorance and hatred. I would be damned if I allowed my offspring to suffer the way I did, but I feared the backlash of an outside world over which I had no control. Almost without realizing what I was doing, I removed my mask and flung it forcefully away from me, gasping at the pain the motion caused and cursing the mask itself, every miserable thing it represented. Only when the mist of rage ebbed from my vision was I able to hush the whispering mockery to which my troubled thoughts had eventually arrived. I shook my head; I knew I wasn't going to resolve anything more that night.

I sat upright in an attempt to calm myself once more. I knew I was being irrational, selfish to the point of destruction. My wife needed me, and I couldn't reach out to her – opting instead to dwell on parts of my life well beyond my control. And it had done absolutely no good – I accomplished nothing and only served to create misery during what should have been a joyous occasion. Suddenly, that was the only thought that made sense, and as such it made the negativity recede just enough to pave the way for more rational thinking.

I was silently thankful for that abrupt and unexpected moment of clarity; it proved to be the only successful measure to quell my disquietude. I was being unfair to Christine in more ways than one, and even so she could find it in herself to love me, to be patient with me, even if that patience was worn thin by my stubbornness. So often had I thought of her as the driving force behind my willingness to face each day, to wander through my mind in the hopes that something good will come of doing so – that would always be true, but I was beginning to understand that it couldn't always be her burden alone. In realizing that, I knew that I had to face my fears somehow. I hardly knew where to begin, but of that I was entirely certain. For the moment, I was at a standstill. I was not yet entirely ready to embrace fatherhood, still too unsure of myself to believe that I could do it. But that could change, if only I _let_ it. And I wouldn't stand idly by and force Christine to move forward alone. She was not willing to abandon me, and so I had to give her my presence in return, even if it took me more time than her to put my discomfort to rest. At any rate, it was my turn to be her strength.

I went to bed earlier than usual, finally exhausted by my pain and reflections. I hadn't yet quite reached a definitive answer for her, still felt the twinges of fear at the back of my consciousness, but I _could_ promise my unwavering devotion as we navigated our lives. Time and patience would have to serve us in the meantime as I sought to find my peace. Until then, I wanted only to be near her.

The bedroom was silent when I entered it, but a lamp still burned on the bedside table – I could see clearly that she had been crying, and that she wasn't asleep despite the late hour and the exhausting events of the day. Her eyes flickered to me briefly, then away again, and my heart sank. I never intended to hurt her this badly, and I had been gone from her far too long, unintentionally cruel in my abandonment. I knew that words would not suffice in those moments – I had nothing of value to say just then, really, nothing that she didn't already know. I was still, for the most part, lost and wholly unsure of how to move forward, and even so, what I was slowly coming to realize and understand could never be spoken properly – I first had to find my way. This was entirely new territory for us both, and I could only hope that, if I could do nothing else right, she could feel the depth of my devotion to her – to our child. Come what may, I would do whatever it took to bring myself to see reason, to accept our ever-changing lives, and I did so for her – my love, my wife, the mother of my child. She was the only one with the power to bring me out of the darkness.

I lay down next to her and gently wrapped my arms around her. Moving slowly, deliberately, I let my hand come to rest on her abdomen, where the life within her fluttered as yet unseen but very much recognized. _You are ours._ She placed her hand over mine – she seemed to understand me.

The pain in my chest subsided into a dull ache, a bitter reminder of all that had transpired that day. But I had to brush that aside; Vito was gone, his death closing yet another chapter of our lives. I had to remember that – it was time to move on, to finally let go. He hadn't, and it had destroyed him in the end. I wouldn't give in that way, I couldn't. I didn't want to meet my own end knowing that I had denied myself anything else, that I had denied my family in the process. The past be damned – they were my future, and nothing could change that.

Christine extinguished the lamp and kissed me in the darkness. I knew without a doubt that she still held my heart in her own. The storm had lost its ferocity, reflecting the calmness we shared that night in our bed. I slowly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, my thoughts only on Christine and our child. In those quiet moments with her in my arms, I remained calm, drifting to a place where nothing else mattered.


	21. She Will Never Be the Same

**Author's Note:** _Aaaand here we go again! Okay, just a tidbit before I set y'all loose on this one. Not a whole hell of a lot to say, but I really need to make mention of the fact that this chapter does come with a **trigger warning***. For anyone that has children, please be aware that some events within this part of the plot may be immensely disturbing. There isn't any gore, but there will be very unsettling circumstances. As a mother myself, I had a bit of difficulty making this section happen. I tried to write in as much foreshadowing as possible as a kind of warning, but again, please note the contents here. I can't say much more without completely spoiling it, and if anyone has any issues while reading this, please let me know and I will do all that I can to ensure your future comfort. On the note of content in general, also let me know how the pacing was for this one - I'm always trying to make everything flow nicely and realistically, as I'm sure y'all are aware of, so I'm hoping as always that reading this is satisfactory and that I'm doing this writing thing properly. Alrighty, before we begin, I'll give credit where credit is due (of course). The title for this chapter comes from the song "Broken" by Ramin Karimloo. #dontjudgeme Or, as he is known in my household - Bae, or Mah Boyfren'. And the worst part is, my husband is so used to my shit that he really gives no fucks about how many of these singers/actors that I'm in love with. Gotta love married life, amirite? But yeah, all joking aside, this song, while it has somewhat of an upbeat vibe to it, is lyrically close to the sentiments that I was trying to capture here. So definitely check it out, if you don't know it already. Welp, I do believe that's all. Because this one ends on a cliffhanger (*ugly cries*), know that the next chapter is written and being edited right now. I'm an asshole, but I'm no monster. ;) Anywhoodles, thank you again for your continued support! Read, review, and enjoy! _

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Chapter 21 – She Will Never Be the Same

Christine

The seasons passed in a whirlwind of anticipation – they almost seemed to blend together, the richness of the summer and autumn fading into the bright and chilled hues of winter. The passing of time was kind to me – to the three of us, really – but I thought of little else besides the arrival of my baby. The child was due in April of the year following my marriage to Erik, mere weeks before the first anniversary of our union. While the pristine veil of winter snow had become a representation of great change and redemption for me – of all the endless possibilities we could allow into our lives – the coming springtime proved to hold all of my attention that year. I was ecstatic as I prepared for motherhood; although in past years the very idea was far from my mind, I knew the moment that I became aware of my pregnancy that I was ready, that I was taking on a role far more significant than I could have ever imagined. Some might have said that I was all too willing to sacrifice my career in the arts, but I could never bring myself to see it that way; I could always sing, dancing upon the brightest stage continued to hold all of its excitement and appeal, but to meet my child for the first time was a singularly important event, a once in a lifetime experience. With each passing month, I became more confident in regards to such an important milestone.

For Erik, that confidence took longer to manifest itself. Since the night of Vito's death – the night that had changed our lives forever, in more ways than we could possibly comprehend – Erik worked through his fears steadily, but in silence nonetheless.

He was not uncaring – if anything he became more protective over me as reality settled into his heart – but he was as equally reserved as he was devoted. I'd catch him smiling to himself when I would pull him into discussions of the future and of our child, but it was more often than not a fleeting occurrence; he would immediately stifle the expression the moment he became aware of its presence. It was as if even the smallest display of favorable emotions would bring forth bad luck; even though he was a logical man, he was often at the mercy of his attempts to ward off any and all potential for looming tragedy as if it were a living and breathing entity that had the power to overtake us at even the slightest misstep. It had gotten to the point that he was extremely hesitant to touch my abdomen and get to know the life that blossomed within me – he had stopped doing so altogether when I began to show, when the proof was undeniably there. I somehow knew that the gesture would make it all the more real for him, the final step in potentially inviting misfortune, and that was simply something that he was not yet ready to acknowledge or risk. His unequivocal acceptance came that first night, to be sure – but under the conditions of his turbulent thoughts, his bravery came with time. I knew that lesser men would have crumbled under the weight of doubt at the very start, without trying to find any other outcome; Erik was stronger than that, whether or not he would admit it to himself.

He attributed that strength as being a quality born of the need to benefit me, but I knew it went further than that. He pressed on because he finally _allowed_ himself to do so, even if his own encouragement came in grudgingly hushed tones. But even so, his mind wasn't so trustworthy as to give him peace as quickly as my own. He had to struggle through rationalizations and doubts, through fears and anger, and in those brief moments when he was able to shrug all of that aside long enough to lend me a hopeful word or a tender caress, he would quickly lapse back into the silence – back to that innate need to fend off despair and failure. But every day he drew closer to me and further from the worst of himself – he embraced our child as any father would – and those small steps gave me all the reassurance I needed not only to remain as patient as I could in my condition, but to know that in the end, our little family would be as strong as any. The past wouldn't matter – the promise of new life was enough to cast out the old ghosts after so many years of fighting against them.

His strength was his gift to me, and in return I longed to give it back to him with as much fervor. He needed that much – he deserved it. At one point during my pregnancy, when my condition was quite obvious and the baby was growing more and more active every day, I decided to bring Erik closer to his own peace of mind. I knew that pulling him out of his fears and to make the child as real as me standing before him was a key point for him, something that he would have to face up to sooner or later, and I wanted to give that to him as soon as possible. He had his acceptance, and he had his stubbornness; he was simply missing that one last step. All I had to do was to give him a gentle push in the right direction.

It was late in the autumn, a time when the days were overtaken by nighttime long before the sunshine had a chance to take control – the warmth of the summer was fast becoming a distant memory for the people of London. The air was cool outside, steadily chilled more strongly as time leapt forward, but within our home that quiet day it was pleasantly comfortable. I came upon Erik in the parlor, deeply engrossed in his composing – a craft that he had finally resumed practicing in the preceding weeks – as he sat at the piano, the golden sunlight of the late afternoon streaming in through the open curtains and illuminating his progress. His mask glowed as fiercely as the ivory keys of his instrument, his eyes glinting with the reflections of them even as his attention seemed miles away. He hadn't noticed my presence at first; rather, pen in his left hand and his right moving across the keyboard with a long-practiced familiarity, he worked with the intensity to which I had long since become accustomed. Very little could reach him when he gave himself to his art – another quality that I found endearing, even if it had caused us conflict in the past.

As if sensing my growing excitement, the baby began kicking furiously. I knew my little one had no intention of resting any time soon. Then was my chance to win my husband's attention.

"Erik?"

"Hello, dear," he said distantly, not turning around.

"Darling, would you come here a moment?" I said in a nervous rush.

He glanced at me immediately, alarmed by my abrupt tone, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I laughed, rather embarrassed by my unexpected bout of shyness and attributing it to the pregnancy, "Just come here."

He narrowed his eyes in confusion, but quickly softened his expression as he rose to approach me, a smirk playing across his lips almost unconsciously. I said nothing as I took his hand firmly and placed it on my abdomen, finding the baby easily and letting my actions speak for themselves. His eyes grew wider almost comically; he stared at me a moment before looking down at his hand meeting the movement of our child.

"Oh my God," he breathed. It was the first time that he had felt the baby kick, the first time its movements had undeniably announced its presence to the unsure father.

"He's very excited today," I said fondly.

"I can't believe this," he breathed a laugh, "I can't describe how this feels."

"Imagine how it must feel for _me_ ," I teased, "He's playing trapeze artist today, I think."

He shook his head, "That's not what I mean," he measured his words before continuing, "This is…I wasn't expecting this. I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. Just know that he's there."

"We're going to have a child," he said distantly, but I knew what lay beneath the surface.

"I know. I can't wait to meet him, either."

He smiled and pulled me into his embrace, and I knew in that moment that recognition and understanding had finally settled over him. I knew how badly he sought it – I could never doubt his sincerity, not since that first night – as difficult as it had been for the both of us – when he held me silently in his arms, his gesture speaking volumes for what he could not yet put into words. When at last it came to him, the weight lifting from his shoulders was nearly tangible. He held me for a long time before he kissed me, very slowly and with all the love in the world. I could feel his devotion, his gratitude, and I suddenly realized that there were tears springing to my eyes as I became aware of the significance of what had just occurred.

From that point on, he let his guard down substantially. We had such grand hopes for the future, finally ready to accept the happiness we were given without question, and we wanted nothing more than to see those hopes come to life.

~~oOo~~

It was the first sunny afternoon that we had been given in days that February – it would prove to be a day that we would never forget.

The emergence of the sunlight had given me a sense of renewed energy, and I was suddenly eager to busy myself with any and all tasks that I could feasibly manage in spite of being rather slowed down. Vera had stopped in to help me with everything else; I was expecting a visit from Madame Giry in only a few days' time, and I wanted to present my first home to her with all the pride and love I felt for it. I corresponded with Madame, Meg, and even Raoul regularly, and it was no secret to them how very smitten I was with life at present, even as much as I missed them. To be able to share a piece of that happiness with one of my most treasured friends in person was a blessing, and I greatly looked forward to the visit and all the wonderful memories it would surely bring.

Vera had taken a bad fall that morning, twisting her ankle and significantly hampering her ability to move about swiftly, but between the two of us we were determined to complete our tasks as we thought of them. They were more often than not the simple efforts of the routine that applies to the maintaining of any household, but the exception was the preparation of the guest room – its first use since our arrival, and I wanted nothing more than to take advantage of the sunlight and my energy while it lasted. Erik had insisted upon lending us his own efforts when he realized that I had been obliged to go up and down the staircase periodically – a necessity that often left him cringing with unabashed concern – but much to his chagrin I maintained that I was perfectly capable of mastering the steps of my own house and sent him back to his study. I smiled and shook my head affectionately at his protective gesture, but stubbornly insisted that I was not yet to the point in my pregnancy that required my near-immobility. There would be all the time in the world for _that_ as April neared, I was sure.

Our own bedroom and the baby's nursery were located upstairs; the guest room, study, and all other available living space downstairs. It was an architectural design that had annoyed Erik to no end – he thought it rather impractical to have sleeping quarters as spread out as they were, rather than neatly and uniformly organized in one place, but of course nothing could be done regarding that matter; the guest room was rendered otherwise out of the way and wholly unused. It was only for Madame Giry's comfort that I wanted to make it presentable. There wasn't much to be done, and I was nearly finished with the task of retrieving fresh linens from the upstairs cupboard when I thought absently that it should be my last hasty trip up the stairs – I decided then that Vera and I had earned a break and resolved to tell her just that when I was done with tending to the guest room. Noticing that the sun was just beginning to set as our list of tasks dwindled, I thought of taking tea with her and looked forward to what I was sure would be as pleasant a conversation as we always shared in the time that I had known her. I was humming to myself, brimming with pride at my domesticity and perfectly content with the productive but relatively uneventful day.

 ***** I don't know what tripped me up – perhaps it was an unnoticed and misplaced footfall as I was too lost in my thoughts to be mindful of what I was doing, perhaps a simple matter of bad timing. But before I realized what was happening, I stumbled and fell down the staircase, dropping the sheets in my hands as I tried to right myself, but it was to no avail. It happened in the blink of an eye. I had been very near to the top when I fell, and coming to rest at the bottom was hard, abrupt, and badly painful. The solid wood floor was unforgiving, and I immediately cried out – both in fear and in agony.

I never lost consciousness, but I found myself in somewhat of a daze, equally confused and shaken; the room seemed to spin wildly around me as I lay there, at first nearly unable to lift myself back into an upright sitting position. I was absolutely terrified – not for myself, for I knew at once that I had somehow been lucky enough to have not broken any bones, but rather my fear was entirely for the baby. Falling that far was violent and jarring, and I knew of enough stories of women in the same situation for whom it hadn't ended well. I heard Erik coming for me immediately. He was by my side and gently cradling me in an instant, checking carefully for any injuries. I couldn't speak at first, couldn't tell him that I was not worried for myself.

"How far did you fall?" he asked urgently, not needing to inquire as to what happened – the evidence was plain enough. I raised my hand feebly and pointed to the spot near the top of the stairs, the origin of the nightmare that was only beginning to unfold. He shuddered at my response and continued, "Can you sit up?"

"I think so," I said softly, but gasped the moment I moved. A sharp pain had overtaken me instantly, a cramping deep within me that not only startled me badly but had me nearly doubled over in Erik's arms. The intensity of the sensation faded a small amount, but never left me entirely.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Something is wrong."

"The baby?"

"Yes," I whispered, willing it somehow not to be true.

"Vera!" he called out, his panic barely contained in his voice, " _Vera!_ "

"What happened?" she cried the moment she saw us, and ran forward despite the obvious pain it caused her own injury.

"She fell," Erik responded in a rush, "I need to get a doctor. Can you help me get her to bed?"

I shook my head, "I can't make it upstairs."

"The guest room, then," he said determinedly, and without another word he lifted me and carried me into the darkened room.

I laid down, trembling and crying as Vera lit the lamps and gave Erik directions to the home of the nearest doctor in hushed tones. My heart was pounding, my body racked with pain, and suddenly I could hardly make sense of what was happening. I couldn't understand how everything had gone so wrong, how quickly the clouds of misfortune had drawn over our world. I tried desperately to rid myself of the notion that my baby was in peril, deciding that not thinking positively would only do us both harm. Another wave of pain passed through me, ripping through me like a knife; I cried out once again, nearly screaming with the force of it. Erik rushed to me immediately, cursing under his breath at what he saw. When it occurred to me to examine myself in the aftermath of the cramping, I realized with a start that I was bleeding, and very badly.

Erik didn't hesitate from that point; without another word, giving me one final glance with an unmasked look of absolute terror in his eyes, he turned and left the room. I knew that he would find help as quickly as humanly possible, but even as Vera tended to me, I still prayed that he would find it in time.

The sun had set completely, and for the first time in years I was completely afraid of the dark.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I had wanted so badly to reassure her, but the words simply wouldn't come. I didn't know how to call them forth. Once the front door closed behind me, I didn't think, didn't dare to speculate over a single detail or to allow my dread to overshadow what little hope remained in my heart. I simply ran full-out in the direction that Vera told me to, heedless of the world around me. It didn't matter – nothing mattered beyond the desperate need to seek help at all costs. But even in trying to block out all else, I remembered the blood and Christine's anguish with a ferocity that was almost mocking – it never should have been there, nothing about what was unfolding should have been reality. We had unwittingly stepped into Hell, and I wasn't sure if we would make it out unscathed. Blinking past the tears that sprang up at the memory, I pressed on, my muscles protesting violently at the effort. But I paid the steadily growing pain little attention, didn't care how my body responded to the unexpected physical abuse. Instead I let the terror drive me onward – as little as I wanted to acknowledge it, I knew that at the very least it would serve to give me wings when I needed them most, when my wife and child needed me more than ever.

The sun had set, its absence bringing forth a chill that penetrated all the warmth that fought to remain in the world. My breath came in plumes before me, the icy air making my chest hurt as I continued to exert myself well beyond any reasonable limits, but it was inconsequential. What little ice and snow that was able to melt during the day had quickly turned back into solid ice once more, almost instantly, once the sun was gone. The cobblestone ground beneath me was absolutely covered in a thick layer of the slick surface; very few places in the path before me were spared, and I was only just barely aware of the necessity of keeping track of my steps. At one point, while rounding a sharp corner, I lost my footing entirely, sliding violently into a low wall and catching my hip on the stone surface painfully. I cried out in frustration as I stumbled, but mercifully I never fell – I was determined to keep a steady pace, knowing that any delay could bring about a disastrous outcome, and righted myself impossibly quickly. I wasn't willing to let even a second be wasted because of a foolish accident.

By the time I made it to the doctor's residence, I was nearly gasping for air. I pounded on the front door frantically, paying no mind to social decorum and absolutely desperate for the home's occupants to hear me at once. The door opened slowly – almost painfully so – and I was met by an older woman, assumedly the doctor's wife. She eyed me suspiciously, noting my disheveled and terrified appearance, but I never gave her the chance to ask for a reason behind my alarming presentation – I scarcely had the presence of mind to form even the most basic introduction.

"I need the doctor," I demanded, nearly shouting, " _Please_ , my wife is hurt, our baby – _wait!_ "

She shook her head fearfully and slammed the door, effectively barring me from my chance to be assisted. I was taken aback until I realized that in my haste I had lapsed back into speaking French. She was likely preparing to act in self-defense if necessary; a masked man appearing at her doorstep shouting incoherently had clearly frightened her, and it seemed that she thought me a lunatic for carrying on as I had. I cursed myself for my loss of control over the situation, but I couldn't dwell on it then, didn't deem it prudent to right my behavior. I was very near panicking and slammed my fists against the wooden surface once again, barely mindful to speak English and quickly dissolving into an unnerved anger as I continued shouting for someone – _anyone_ – to return, " _Help me!_ Goddammit, someone is hurt! _Help!_ "

When the door opened again, it was the doctor himself that answered.

"Sir, please slow down. What's going on?" he asked urgently.

I told him what had happened in a rush, and without needing to level another question at me he turned back into the house, retrieved his bag, and followed me back home. He kept pace with me the entire time, matching me stride-for-stride with the knowledge that two lives very likely depended on our timely arrival.

Vera met us inside, her eyes holding both sympathy and deep concern as she followed the doctor to lend her assistance. Christine's condition had worsened significantly by the time we returned; fear gripped at my heart like a vice, and as forcefully as I fought against it, I was unable to win the battle. The doctor immediately went to examine her, to make his diagnosis, but in my stress-addled state of mind I remained numbly beyond the confines of the guest room. I stood near the far end of the hallway, as distant from the closed door as I could without leaving entirely; I felt miserably restless yet unable to move as I waited anxiously for any word. I wished desperately for good news – as time stretched on maddeningly, I very seriously considered kneeling down and praying for the first time in years. Yet a bleak notion within my mind insisted that doing so would be a forfeit somehow – as if what should have been a sincere effort born of those dark and dreadful moments was resigning us all to defeat and would only bring further punishment. I had no idea what to do, and so in the end I chose simply to wait in that endless void of fear.

Vera was the first to leave the room – she shouldered past me quickly, half-running and half-limping out of the house in mingled fear and determination. I didn't have the chance to ask after where she was going when the doctor laid a hand on my shoulder, startling me significantly.

"She's in labor," he said flatly, seeming to regret that his words were true, "The fall was traumatic, and the baby is in distress. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do to stop its progress."

I shook my head, as if doing so would erase everything he had just said and insisting, "That _cannot_ be possible. That baby isn't supposed to be here until April."

"I'm very sorry," he repeated before continuing slowly, "but she will deliver tonight. It will be a very dangerous birth. I'm most concerned about hemorrhaging, at this point. And the baby –"

"– It's too early," I said numbly, as if cutting off his words would undo everything.

"Mr. Lennox, try to understand – "

"Will they be alright?" I demanded abruptly.

"I don't know," he sighed, "I won't lie to you…it will be a miracle if they both survive."

My breath caught as the reality of his words settled over me; everything I knew came crashing down around me, and I couldn't remain in denial – his words were too final to be anything but the truth. I closed my eyes and asked tremulously, "Does she know this?"

"Yes," he said softly.

I said nothing more as I rushed past him and back into the room, only then becoming cognizant of the fact that I had been avoiding it since returning. It was as if it alone was the source of ill-omen, the catalyst in the journey through this waking nightmare. But I knew that I needed to be with Christine, even if I could do nothing to change the circumstances. I approached her slowly, as if doing so cautiously would prevent any more pain. I could scarcely find the strength to look into her eyes, but when I did my heart absolutely shattered. I saw before me a woman that was about to have everything taken from her, a woman that might very well have been nearing her own end. In those moments, my dreams flitted away with hers. I grasped her hands tightly the moment she reached for me, her tears of mingled pain and horror flowing as her hands trembled in mine.

"Vera is getting a midwife," she said disbelievingly, "It's _too early_ ," she added emphatically, mirroring my own recent statement and seeming to beg me to halt everything around us somehow.

I could only nod, "I know."

"I'm frightened," she whispered.

"So am I," I admitted breathlessly, making a mighty effort not to allow myself to cry in front of her. I had known at the beginning that I had to be her strength, but I didn't know then how very desperately she would come to need it. I decided in that instant to hold back, no matter how painful it would be inside; if I broke, I feared that she would be lost as well.

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. You have to. I'm sorry, Christine," I said, kissing her temple and barely able to hold back my own tears, "I'm so sorry."

I held her in my arms as she sobbed – it was the only thing either of us could do then.

The doctor entered the room a short time later, followed closely by Vera and the midwife, every one of them appearing flustered yet stoically focused. I knew that the doctor and the midwife were no strangers to what was occurring, to the tragedy and urgency that would accompany the child's birth; I tried to put my faith in that fact, tried to convince myself that their experience would somehow be our saving grace. But even so, my dread continued to loom at the edge of my consciousness, waiting in the shadows as if planning an attack.

"Mr. Lennox," the midwife started gently, "You need to leave now."

Christine clutched at me desperately as she cried, " _No_ , he can't," and then to me, "Please, don't leave me. _Please_."

"Calm down," I said in a rush to placate her and prevent further distress, "It's alright. I won't leave you, not at all. I promise."

"Mr. Lennox," the midwife sighed sympathetically, "I _must_ insist. It's not proper – "

"To hell with propriety," I snapped, "I'm _not_ leaving this room. I won't abandon my wife to suffer like this alone."

"He's staying," the doctor said with all the authority of a man that had witnessed too much in his time – a man with the experience to know better, "She needs him now."

~~oOo~~

Christine's labor was drawn out and immensely agonizing – there was no question as to whether or not she was suffering, and my heart broke for her. All I could do was stand beside her, speak gently to her, and hold her hand as she screamed and fought to remain with us, to give birth to a child well before it was time to do so. It was torture to witness, but I knew it was absolute hell for her – there was not a moment's reprieve from the pain or the terror. She held onto my hand as if it were the only anchor she had left in the world – and for all I knew, that very well might have been the case. She was quickly sapped of her strength; it wasn't long before I braced my free arm behind her back in an effort to help her remain upright. The doctor had been correct to fear blood-loss – each passing moment only proved to be that much more taxing on Christine's broken body, and the doctor was only barely able to keep the bleeding to a minimum. But even his best efforts were not enough to stop it entirely, and time was very much against her. The baby was simply not progressing fast enough; the doctor attempted to ease the child into the world while guiding its mother through gentle commands every step of the way, but the distress to them both was painfully clear.

The air in the room was tense as the situation only seemed to worsen with each passing second. Christine cried, often begging for help from everyone and no one all at once. I spoke to her as evenly as possible, stroked her hair from her face and grasping her hand steadily, all the while wishing for nothing more than for it to be over, for the outcome to not be deadly for either of them. But as the deepening night overtook the world, the possibility of them surviving grew more dismal. Christine seemed to be fading before my eyes, like the dulling of an ember on the wind – I would have given anything in those moments to be taken into Death's arms in her stead. If I could have given my own life to save her, to spare them both, I would have without a second thought.

She cried out again, her last effort to bring our child into the world. In an instant, the baby was born, and Christine – overcome by exhaustion and trauma – fell back into the pillows, her grip on my hand loosening with an alarming swiftness. She was conscious, but only just barely, and her hold on the world was slipping away rapidly. It seemed to me that the walls were closing in around us, that there was no longer any air in the room.

"A girl," the midwife murmured to us as she assisted the doctor, "You have a girl."

Her words meant little to me – it seemed as though time had stopped entirely. The doctor held up our daughter; feeling desperate and defeated, I stifled the sob that was fighting to come forth.

 _Dear God, no. Please…_

The baby was far too small, entirely limp in the doctor's steady hands – all the color seemed to be drained from her frail form. Tears blurred my vision as I waited…just waited. But there was nothing.

 _Please, God…_

She did not cry.


	22. Until the Dark Comes to Bruise the Day

**Author's Note:** _Welp, here we have the long-awaited conclusion to the last chapter's cliffhanger. Erm...please don't kill me. I will say this much, good things **will** come...eventually. In the meantime, let me know what y'all think, especially regarding pacing, realism, level of traumatizing content - you know, the usual. ;) But seriously, I'm eager to see how this is coming along, so any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. On that note, another thank you to everyone that has given this story a chance so far. Y'all are truly awesome! Okay, not too much else to say here. This chapter's title is based on the song "Routine" by Steven Wilson. I highly suggest y'all not only read the lyrics, but watch the official music video in its entirety. It is both absolutely breathtaking and heartwrenching. Just stunning altogether, and it really goes with this chapter. But even on its own, I think it's one of Wilson's best works. So yeah, if you're curious, definitely have a look. Anywhoodles, I think that's about it. Again, please read, review, and let me know how it's coming along. Enjoy! _

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Chapter 22 – Until the Dark Comes to Bruise the Day

Christine

The world beneath the scope of true consciousness was surreal; it was utterly intangible and impossible to understand – it pulled my mind in all directions as if I were traveling freely into an endless horizon, yet simultaneously it oppressed me with its force, suffocating me without having to steal the breath from my body. I swam through a black void, absent of any physical pain, but so entirely confused and lost that it was all I could do to keep myself just aware enough to know that if I let go and gave in to that pull, it would be for good. Yet in spite of my maddeningly disjointed thoughts, a strong instinct held me, an innate fear that gripped me and implored me to get out somehow. It told me to listen. Someone was in danger, and it was imperative that I remember that connection to my life. I waited, but to no avail. The cry that deep in my heart I knew I longed to hear never came.

Consciousness returned to me slowly – almost grudgingly – coming back in sharp fragments and blurred understandings, all tainted by that darkness from which I feared I would never escape.

I could hear Erik's voice just beyond the veil of that terrible reality. His words cried out for me, his voice holding a desperation to reach me that reminded me that everything had gone horribly wrong, that the baby had been born far too soon. Flashes of nightmarish memories danced within my mind, but I refused to acknowledge them just then – I had to focus on the present, on Erik's voice in the hopes that he would find me. Murmurs from the doctor and the midwife, Vera's soft crying, all the rush of deliberated actions melded with tension around me were apparent, but I could not understand any of it – I didn't want to. I wanted nothing more than to hear my daughter, to hold her. I wanted to break free from that blackness and lift myself back into consciousness. Yet I was weak, so terribly exhausted, and the void only pulled me in deeper. I distantly thought that perhaps it was for the best – if I stayed, I would never have to face up to the reality that I feared above all else.

I didn't _want_ to know why the baby didn't cry. The very thought filled me with dread, but so long as I kept my eyes closed, so long as I denied myself the chance to simply awaken, I might never have to feel the pain of mournful understanding.

" _Christine_ , open your eyes," Erik demanded again, his voice growing clearer yet impossible to reach, as if the entire world separated us.

In spite of my desire to remain in denial for as long as possible, I wanted to feel his hand in mine – I knew that I needed to acknowledge his fearful request, but I no longer felt connected to myself. I felt utterly hollow, as insubstantial as a ghost.

"Open your eyes for me."

 _But I can't._

"Please."

 _I'm sorry._

"Christine, you have to _wake up_."

 _I'm frightened._

Erik's voice was closer this time, softer as he pled, "Don't do this now. Don't go."

I realized then that he _was_ holding my hand – perhaps he had never let it go. He was holding my hand tightly and begging me to wake up. He touched his forehead to mine, whispering his pleas. I could hear the tears at the edge of his voice, the sheer despair and the unmasked fear. He continued to speak, attempting to coax me into consciousness. I wanted to respond to him, to be able to feel his arms around me – I was growing more frightened as the seconds ticked by. Time moved impossibly slowly; in that terrible plane just beyond the reach of human compassion, despair and horror were amplified tenfold, and I wanted to be free and to never go back. I wanted to call out to Erik and beg him to cast the darkness away, to give me breath again, but I knew that I remained numb to his world. It was clear in his voice that my best attempts to make even the smallest movement had been in vain.

I heard the doctor's voice again, but his words were as distant as everything else – they were nearly unrecognizable to me – but he sounded so very defeated. He spoke of blood-loss, of trauma and shock, as if he were preparing Erik for bitter news. I wondered if that meant that I truly was dying.

 _I can't._

I thought of the baby again, my instincts pulling me strongly toward her wellbeing.

 _Where is she?_

I was covered with a blanket as I felt Erik pull back from me, speaking to the others in the room, asking questions and being given succinct responses that were only just beginning to make sense to me. Suddenly I felt a hand at my neck, my wrist; I heard more speaking, soft whispers and instructions given in stern demands. I knew that the doctor was continuing to treat me, that he was monitoring my condition now that he had seemed to have controlled the bleeding. But it was unsettling to me nonetheless that I still could not bring myself to the surface, to awaken at last. I felt a fist high on my chest, the knuckles pressing down in a rhythmic motion. There was pain at that contact, but it only barely registered with me. I compelled myself to focus on it harder, knowing the action had to mean something but not yet understanding why.

"No response to painful stimuli," the doctor said grimly, but he continued administering to me.

Erik took my hand in his once more, but this time his grip was stronger, measured with an intentional and specific motion. He took my fingers in his grasp and squeezed tightly, rolling them so that they gnashed together uncomfortably. _Painful stimuli,_ I remembered. They were taking further steps to wake me up.

And finally, they reached me. It was only slightly at first, as minute as those first moments of hesitant consciousness. But slowly I returned to the realm of reality, to the guest room of my home where my husband holding my hand was the first thing I saw. When my weary eyes met his, I saw intense pain and a wild fear in them that quickly gave way to guarded relief.

"Very good," the doctor breathed, "Stay with us, now."

My eyes flicked to where he stood on my other side, then looked all around me as if I were a wandering and frightened stranger in a foreign land. The room was only barely coming into focus, had become a place far too dark despite the glowing of the lamplight – it seemed to me that the shadows were far too large, looming and encroaching dangerously; there were _too many_ of those shadows, and all the light in the world would have done nothing to cast them out. Everything had changed, and nothing felt comforting or welcoming. It felt to me that all the warmth in the world was gone, and that notion made my heartbeat quicken. I was trembling; surely I was still in that nightmare. Perhaps some part of me had been left behind. I shook my head and closed my eyes once more, willing my terror to recede. I felt too weak to be able to conquer any more of that darkness, and I knew that allowing my heightened fear to take center stage would only invite more memories of that void.

"No, don't," Erik said swiftly, gripping my hand again, "Open your eyes, Christine."

"Help me," I whispered, wondering how I was able to utter any words in my exhaustion and desperate for the ordeal to finally be over.

" _Look_ at me."

"Erik?"

"Open your eyes," he insisted, "You need to stay awake."

Finally I assented to his demand, the logical part of me knowing why he would not waver on his plight to keep my eyes open for as long as possible, "What's happening? I'm so tired."

"You lost a lot of blood," he stated distantly.

I only nodded in response to that. With a mighty effort to remain calm, I asked the singular question that I absolutely needed answered but fiercely dreaded the outcome, "Where is she?"

He hesitated and said very softly, "I'm sorry – "

"– _Tell me_ that she's alright," I interrupted as my heart sank.

"Christine," his voice caught, "She died."

There was silence for only the briefest of moments. My eyes widened as my grip tightened on his, the fearsome words that he had just spoken ripping through me violently. I didn't want to believe it.

" _No!_ You have to help her!" I screamed, the sound of it echoing in the room and shattering my very soul. I could hardly believe that the sound had come from me – it was an expression of grief that was nearly inhuman in its intensity.

I struggled to sit upright, fighting against Erik's grasp and desperate to undo everything, to take back the entire night and free us all from that torture. But I was too weak; he restrained me gently and with little effort on his part. I was very near hysteria – my breath came in gasps, making my chest feel tight and causing a wave of dizziness that made dark spots dance in my vision. But I didn't care – I couldn't stop my reaction from nearly overtaking me completely. My heart was absolutely broken, perhaps beyond repair. It was as if it had been ripped from my body, leaving only destruction and misery in its absence. I wanted so desperately for it not to be true; it couldn't be possible that the baby we so looked forward to meeting, the life which just that very morning had been alive and well within me was gone. Her life had been snuffed out before it had even started, and with that knowledge I wanted to follow her. I wanted to die if only I could hold her in my arms and never have to say goodbye.

"I'm sorry," Erik repeated tremulously as he held my shuddering form in his arms, "I'm so sorry."

The doctor approached and spoke to me very gently, his sympathy entwined with his every word. He explained what had happened to her, why it had all gone so terribly wrong; but as far as I was concerned his words were nothing more than medical jargon, a means to justify a tragedy that my own damnable stubbornness had set into motion. I shook my head, but I could not bring myself to respond to him. Even in knowing that he was sincere, I couldn't allow myself to accept his kindness. I could hardly accept that my daughter had died, and acknowledging any sympathy toward that awful truth was another step to make it real – _permanent_.

The screaming, disbelieving mourning which tore through me ebbed, slowly halting my tears almost entirely, but the pain never left altogether. It ran too deeply to ever be able to be healed, I was sure, and I had no idea in those first moments of how to move on from that point; I wasn't sure if that kind of pain was survivable. I spied the midwife across the room, and suddenly I realized that the baby was still there with us. The midwife tended to her, gently swaddling her impossibly small body in a blanket. It was only then that she truly became real, that the absence of her life was undeniable. Her body was there, but her soul was no longer a part of this world. I stared at her in numb disbelief – she seemed miles away, but I could not take my eyes off of her. I was aware of the tears that fell from my eyes, of the fact that Erik had loosened his hold on me when I stopped struggling against him, but little else reached my consciousness. I wasn't sure how to move forward from that point, to be certain; the only idea of which I had no doubt was that I had to close the space between us, I had to know her as something tangible. Moreover, a part of me insisted that she couldn't be left alone without her mother. I didn't question whether or not I was being rational then – I simply heeded the call of my instincts.

"Can I see her?" I asked determinedly.

"Mrs. Lennox," the midwife said quietly, "I'm not – "

"– I need to hold her."

"It is unadvisable that you do," she said flatly, seeming to want to hide her pity.

"Let her hold the baby," Erik insisted beside me, his tone of voice almost unreadable as he continued slowly, "She needs to say goodbye."

The midwife sighed, but eyed us both sympathetically as she nodded, reluctantly conceding to my request. With a pained yet determined glance at me, Erik moved away from me and across the room. He was only steps away from the midwife and the baby when he hesitated. It seemed to take all of his power to close the distance between them, and even though only the masked side of his profile was visible to me then, it was undeniable that his pain was as immeasurable as mine – but the stiffness in his every movement and subtle gesture told me that he was making a mighty effort to remain in control of himself. The midwife made to lift the bundle before her, but Erik stopped her with a dismissive motion of his hand. The midwife nodded and allowed him to lift the tiny infant himself. He cradled her, using all the care in the world as if she would shatter before our eyes if he didn't take enough care with her. He looked down at her for a moment, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and I knew that the state of his heart mirrored my own then.

He approached me and shifted her into my waiting arms. I couldn't believe what I was experiencing – my arms held her perfectly, as if they were made only to dote upon her. She was so light; it was like touching a bird. I held her close to me, supporting her and pulling her in for warmth as I had learned. She was so small, so unnaturally still, yet if I didn't know any better I could have pretended that she was only sleeping. Erik looked down at us with mingled despair and awe, visibly tense and trembling as he bit back still more tears and set his jaw in a defiant act of self-control.

He backed away from the bed to allow me those sacred moments alone with my daughter, arms crossed tightly in front of him as if he were trying to hold himself together – as if that was the only way he knew to protect himself. The room had fallen silent once again, when suddenly he choked a sob that sounded almost animal in its anguish – it was the sound of pure torture, emotions too violently powerful to be overcome. He had lost his child as well, and I could only look upon him in complete understanding of what he could not put into words. I could say nothing to comfort him, as all the sympathy in the world would do nothing to soften the pain of our loss in my own broken heart. In a rush, he left the room, muttering an apology in a strangled voice and shouldering past the rest of the occupants as they looked upon his retreat with pity.

I let him go, knowing that calling after him wouldn't do either of us any good. I held the lost baby girl in my arms and cried for her.

~~oOo~~

Erik

I had never held a baby before – not until that terrible night. The first time I held my daughter, her absence reached my consciousness jarringly. Her body was solid, but her stillness was almost too much to bear, horrifying in its reality and mocking as the understanding became clearer with each passing second. To have to pass that burden on to Christine nearly broke me entirely. It was a suffering with an intensity that I had never known; it was the most grisly level of torture, and I wasn't sure how long I could endure it. I had remained silent for Christine's sake, but it had simply become a futile effort. We were both broken beyond repair, of that I had no doubt whatsoever; we could share in that experience. But I couldn't face it then – I couldn't remain in that room any longer.

I would be lying if I said I didn't blame myself, just as I was sure that she would blame herself just as strongly. I wanted so badly to comfort her, knew that I had to convince her to the contrary, but I knew how difficult it would be to reach her. I had been so afraid of losing the person that I cherished most in the world, had watched her nearly bleed to death and witnessed the initial moments of her mourning our child. I wanted to take her pain away, to take it all upon myself where it belonged and make her understand that she was not at fault for what had happened. Yet the words wouldn't come to me then, and I opted to flee from the pain as I felt the world collapsing around me.

I ran upstairs to our bedroom and out onto the balcony, met only by the cold night air and the pale moonlight. It seemed for all the world that I was surrounded by ghosts in that blue-white haze, spirits which cried out mournfully for our plight, the sound reaching my ears as loudly as rolling thunder as I fought the overwhelming desire to end it all if only to kill the pain. I stopped abruptly at the railing and grasped onto it so tightly that my knuckles turned white – I just screamed, finally allowing myself to cry and leaving myself shuddering violently as my voice nearly went hoarse in my anguish. I hung my head down low as the tears fell; I couldn't move then, the despair was unstoppable. As much pain as I was in, I knew that Christine's pain was unimaginable. I had heard it in her desperation to bring the child back from the dead, had seen it in her eyes when she took our daughter into her arms for the first time. I had seen it, and I had felt it for myself the moment I laid eyes upon her; the moment that she was born, still and silent and gone from us before she even drew a single breath, I had learned of a pain that was nearly beyond tolerance. I had witnessed men die countless times – both by my own hand and by their own acts of recklessness – but I had never understood mourning, what it was truly like to feel a loss so deeply. I had never known someone, loved or been loved enough by another person only to have them taken from me, but when that experience of pure humanity finally did reach my consciousness, I regretted its existence more than anything else. It had broken me, and it had nearly killed Christine.

And _none_ of that should have been true; in no fair and just universe should anyone have to face the reality of burying their own child. I was miserable, and I was angry. I couldn't understand why, after everything that we had been through, that we had everything stripped from us. It was so abrupt, seemed so meaningless, and I couldn't comprehend why it had happened when we had finally thought that we would not be made to endure any more suffering – certainly not in this form. I looked up into the sky, into that blackness dotted with the shimmering stars. Still crying, my breath coming in plumes before me in rapid succession, I felt a wave of misery come over me so strongly that I thought the blow would send me over the edge.

" _Why?_ " I shouted into the heavens, furious that God had dangled the promise of a future before us and had snatched it back so suddenly, "Are You happy _now?_ "

I was absolutely furious, confused by why someone as loving and innocent as Christine was being punished with such an intense cruelty. She had done absolutely nothing to warrant such suffering; it seemed that her only sin was loving me. Perhaps that was it – even after baring my soul to the God that I so desperately wanted to reach in pure desperation after years of questioning, to have one miracle from Him when it was a life hanging on the balance, we were still left to suffer alone in the dark. Perhaps it was the final punishment for my life of sin, it was Christine's penance for allowing herself to love someone whose soul was stained with the blood of others. Death followed me wherever I went – too often I had brought it down upon other men, the reasons and justifications lost and muddled over too many years of trying to forget. Time and time again the demons refused to let me go, the past continued to return with a worse vengeance than the last, and once again Christine was caught in the crossfire. I hated myself then, hated myself for everything that I had done, for being selfish and foolish enough to drag my love down with me. I couldn't continue to delude myself into believing that I could ever have been redeemed, certainly not when it seemed that my actions had culminated in her anguish.

It made no sense to me that one as hideous and as shamefully separated from humanity as I was ever gifted with even the smallest glance at all the good the world had to offer – and my own innocent child would never have that. Guilt consumed me, all the shame and resentment, the anger and the fear that had for so long defined me came flooding back forcefully. All the happiness that Christine and I had built and shared, all the dreams that we forged in spite of everything was sapped from me in an instant. She lay downstairs suffering, holding onto our baby for as long as she possibly could, and I had done that to her. In taking her into my life, I had sentenced her to live through that nightmare and every miserable day that was sure to follow. I pushed myself away from the railing and backed up until I reached the outer wall of the house. I slid down to the ground, pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them like a frightened child. I looked up at the sky once more, seeing the stars burning before my eyes, impossibly far away. Such beauty, never to be grasped by human hands – lost to us all despite our longing to take up that beauty and cherish it. I wanted my daughter back.

"Are you out there?" I whispered into the silence.

I put my head down on my knees and cried until my sobs felt like they were ripping me apart. I gave myself to that anguish – I didn't know what else to do with it, only that I deserved it.

I deserved it, but Christine didn't. I would never be able to know the pain she had, nor would I be able to take it away – I had failed her once again, had failed my daughter the very moment I doubted my ability to take care of her. I sat there shivering violently, but it had almost nothing to do with the cold air around me.

~~oOo~~

It was quite some time later that I heard Vera open the doors to my side. I was freezing, but I remained in place, knees pulled closely to me with my forearms resting upon them, and I just sat there. I simply stared and thought, lost in the reflections of a world painted with melancholy.

"Mr. Lennox, the priest is here," she said cautiously, as if a misspoken word would be the end of me. Perhaps she wasn't very far from the truth.

"You shouldn't have come up here on that ankle," I murmured distantly.

I stood stiffly, my movements slow and exaggerated as I tried to ignore the look in Vera's eyes – that unwavering sympathy, such thinly veiled pity. It had been there steadily in the gazes of everyone present that night, and I was sure that it would haunt us forever. When I made my way downstairs and back to the guest room, I found Christine still holding the baby close, softly singing a lullaby. I went to her side slowly and watched them for a time, unsettled by what I saw yet unable to look away. I would remember my daughter's face, the stillness of her too small body, for the rest of my life. Vera had cut a lock of the baby's hair for us to keep – all that remained of her was that, her swaddling blanket, and the image of her closed eyes that would eternally be engraved in our hearts. She was so beautiful, so like her mother. It was as if Christine was cradling an angel, and we were not worthy enough to hold on to such a being for too long.

"The priest will come in when you're ready," I said softly, working again to keep my voice as steady as I could.

"There's nothing we can do, is there?" she asked sadly, ignoring my statement and seeming to want to beg me for one last chance for a miracle. I knew that admitting the priest was just the next of many steps leading to our final parting, and she was doing everything in her power to make the only moments we would have as an intact family last as long as possible.

"No," I said, "I'm sorry."

"I don't even know her name," she said ruefully, her tears flowing once more, "We hadn't discussed names yet."

"Estelle," I said distantly.

"What?"

"We should call her Estelle, it seems…fitting. Would that be alright?"

She paused a moment, then nodded and looked back down at the baby, "Yes. My Estelle."

The priest came to us a short time later. To me, his time in that room was a blur of sacred words that only served to wound us further, reminding us that those very words meant to comfort were accompanying a tragic and unexpected death. I crossed myself when it was time to do so, repeated his appeals when tradition necessitated, but it was nearly involuntary, a stiff and mechanical tribute, but a tribute nonetheless – it was the only thing I could do for my daughter to respect her and give some small shred of meaning to her short life. And then it was done, and the priest left us alone once more. He and the others had gathered in the parlor, watching over us from a distance and offering their assistance should we request it, but they remained at arm's length otherwise. I was grateful for that. As the night progressed, Christine and I were sinking further into our respective despair, giving ourselves to our shared sorrow, and it was something that only we two could experience. To have anyone else in the room with us longer than necessary was simply one more thing we wouldn't face.

I pulled a chair as close to the bed as possible and sat with Christine in near-silence. There was nothing more we could say – then was simply not the time to do so. I touched Estelle's hand as Christine continued to hold her close, seeming to want to embrace every last detail of her as badly as I did. Her hand was so small in mine, so light and impossibly fragile. I loved her, God help me I loved her from the first moment I learned of her existence. Even when I could hardly admit my acceptance to myself, I knew that she was a blessing beyond comprehension – when at the beginning I was not sure that I could be a father, in those final moments with my daughter I regretted my doubts fervently. I wanted nothing more than for us to have been given the chance to raise her, to love her unconditionally and to watch her life unfold before our eyes. I would have gladly stumbled through every mistake of an inexperienced parent to have her in return. But my family was broken that night; we would never see her, she would never open her eyes; she would be forever halted in time as an infant that simply arrived too soon.

I was pulled from my dark reverie when the doctor called me from the room.

"We'll have to take the baby soon," he said regretfully once we were in the hallway, "I hate to do this to her, but your wife has been through a terrible shock. She needs to recover," he sighed, "She has to say goodbye."

"I understand," I said flatly, knowing that he was right and nearly hating him for it.

"I'm truly sorry that this happened to you both."

"Thank you," I responded, not knowing how else to approach him. I was grateful when he simply nodded his acceptance of my words and left me alone in the quiet darkness once again.

I stood before the closed door longer than necessary, attempting to calm myself and failing miserably, before I returned to Christine and Estelle. I was dreading what I had to do – the finality of it.

"What is it?" she asked hesitantly when I approached her.

"They have to take her, Christine."

She shook her head, "No, I'm not ready. Please."

"You'll never be ready for this," I said sadly, "Neither will I. We'll always want more time."

She looked back down and said anxiously, "I don't think I can do this."

My heart aching, I brushed her hair away from her face and turned her head gently to meet my eyes once more, "Listen to me. You can do this. You are _far_ braver than I, you always have been. Show that to me now. We have to say goodbye. When I take her from your arms, it will be painful, but I know you will be stronger."

She searched my eyes and looked down, nodding after a brief silence. She closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her willpower and letting her tears falling freely as she did so. She brought Estelle close to her and kissed her forehead, her hands, her cheeks, making each movement slow and deliberate as if she were performing the rites of a sacred ceremony to send our daughter into the waiting arms of God in Heaven.

"I love you, Estelle," she whispered, "I love you so much. I'm so sorry, my darling."

Before I took the baby from her arms, I held Christine in a tight embrace almost without thinking about the action, unconsciously needing to feel her near me as if she was sustaining my very life. And more, I wanted to comfort her in even the smallest way, to have her close to my heart as we shared our final moments with our daughter; it was the last time the three of us would be together in this world. Only then did I cry in front of her – I couldn't stop myself. When I had no choice but to pull away, I did so with the deepest regret I had ever felt, a sensation that would echo within me endlessly.

Christine steeled herself, holding the baby only slightly away from herself as she said with forced determination, "Take her."

I flash of memory startled me for an instant. The last night at the opera house, the night that sanity had almost entirely slipped from my grasp as we engaged in a dangerous dance of willpower and desperation. That night I believed it was all over between us, that love and happiness would remain foreign concepts and that I would be forever condemned to fight through the darkest recesses of my mind in complete solitude. That night was a blur of anger, of evil and fear, but I could clearly remember being brought back to reality, even if only for long enough to let Christine lead her life in peace.

 _Take her. Forgive me, forget all of this._

In the end she had saved me, yet now how I wished we _could_ forget – I wished it was within the realm of human capability to cast the ghosts of our existence out forever, for otherwise it was clear that we would forever be tortured by their enduring presence. It was impossible to let go, and I wasn't sure how to live among that turmoil anymore; it seemed as though we were always trying, our efforts constantly in vain. When Estelle was in my arms once again, I wanted nothing more than to take my worst memories and banish them from my mind forever. But that was impossible, and I knew that, as hard as I had tried to break away from the past, its realities would come back to haunt us one way or another. I took one last regretful look at Christine before leaving the room.

It was as if I was hypnotized, having to take those final steps toward the end. I stroked Estelle's face one last time before handing her to the doctor.

"Goodbye, my poor darling," I whispered.

Nothing more was said before the front door closed, its echo driving through me like a knife.

~~oOo~~

I made arrangements with the priest as the midwife assisted Christine in changing and moving upstairs. She had insisted upon leaving the guest room at once – I couldn't blame her, nor did I try to stop her in spite of the trauma that she had just endured. I had half a mind to board the door shut for good, to render that room all but nonexistent. It was nothing but a mausoleum as of that night, as far as I was concerned. I was sure that it would be some time before either of us could enter that space and hope to keep our sanity intact. Christine was emotionally and physically exhausted, traumatized more than enough for a lifetime, and she needed to be out of the place that bore witness to the birth and death of our only child.

Vera offered to stay in the parlor that night, and I didn't decline. I no longer had the energy or the desire to fight – couldn't find it in me to question or doubt her sincerity – and the most basic humanity in me could appreciate the gesture. Instead, I nodded my approval and made my way upstairs, my footsteps heavy and my heart aching furiously – the house felt abysmally quiet and far too empty. Christine was laying on her side when I came upon her; it was clear that she had been crying, and she was shaking badly in spite of being covered. I got into the bed beside her, pulling her into my arms immediately, and she accepted my touch even in her despair.

"I'm so cold," she whispered tremulously.

"It's the blood-loss," I responded, "It'll pass."

"The pain won't. I know it won't," she said, crying out miserably with the truth of her sentiment, and without another word she dissolved into her grief once more.

I sat upright and pulled her closer; she was nearly in my lap as I held her tightly, trying both to keep her warm and to comfort her somehow. But I knew that all I could do for her then was to let her give herself to her anguish. Nothing I could say would reach her, I had known that much from the start. I simply held her as she sobbed, resting my head atop hers as she cried into my chest. I could feel her shuddering, felt myself shaking as badly. We held onto each other as the night continued to bleed away into its deepening darkness – I'm not sure whose grasp was more fervent, which one of us was more desperate to be released from the pain. I shifted so that we could lean against the bedstead, and simply waited, heartache overcoming us both. Gradually, her tears dried and she drifted between dozing and awareness. We never moved, we just remained as if we were lost yet unwilling to move forward.

When we finally managed to fall asleep, the house was utterly silent. Once again, it was just the two of us in our family – that truth was a bitter pill to swallow.

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 **Author's Note:** I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! *runs* Forgive me! It'll get better, I swear! OH LOOK, A DISTRACTION! *tries to escape by doing a fancy cape twirl* *fails* DAMN IT! More to follow. ;)


	23. If You Believe It's In My Soul

**Author's Note:** _Welp, this chapter is another long motherfucker, and so full of feels. Hopefully it will make up both for taking so long to update and for my shameful disregard of fictional baby lives. 0_o At any rate, I'm pretty satisfied with how this one turned out, although as usual I'm hoping that it wasn't too rushed, especially toward the end. Let me know, I'm worried that pacing is one of my weaker points and I'm hoping to improve upon that, should it be the case. Anywhoodles, it is also my hope that there is still interest in this story. I'm having trouble viewing my traffic graph, and that always makes me hella nervous, especially when I'm not seeing regular feedback. So I can only assume it's going well. :P I hope I'm right! Because I do sincerely enjoy writing this and sharing it here, so I hope that it is proving to be an enjoyable and satisfactory piece. As it stands, I do want to say, yet again, a huge thank you to everyone that takes the time to read this. As always, I am very appreciative. :D So, I do believe that's all I wanted to say on that note. Before we go on, I'll mention that the title for this chapter comes from the song "Pieces" by Sum 41. As always, if y'all are interested and have a chance to head on over to YouTube and check out a lyric video, I highly recommend doing so. I feel like the song really reflects the feelings I'm trying to convey in this section, especially where Christine is involved. Originally, I had planned to use a different song to go along with the chapter, "Do Da Da" by Green Day, but thanks to Pandora Radio I rediscovered the Sum 41 song used here after not hearing it for quite some time, and while the Green Day song would have worked, I feel that the vibe of "Pieces" was more appropriate. Finally, I'll just mention real quick-like to stick around, my darlings, because we've got about ten chapters left until the end. There is definitely a lot more I want to put the characters through before we wrap this up. I'm such an ass. Well, not all the time, happy feels will be coming soon - hell, maybe even some smut because why not, but yeah, always the drama sprinkled in with this one. ;) Welp, I'm rambling now, so I'll let y'all get right back in to the story. Please read, review, and enjoy!_

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Chapter 23 – If You Believe It's In My Soul

Erik

The days immediately following Estelle's death will always stand out in my mind as perhaps some of the darkest times of our lives – events that I would rather prefer not to remember but whose powerful images held onto my thoughts like a vice. I had witnessed and experienced unimaginable horrors in the past, but nothing anyone had ever done to me was as painful as losing my daughter; nothing had impacted me so deeply as mourning my child. For Christine – as expected – that pain was exceedingly worse, amplified that much more by the physical toll that the birth had taken on her body. If she wasn't feeling physically exhausted, then her emotional state left her nearly unreachable by any words or gestures of comfort. We spent the days more or less in silence, the two of us despairing and distant as we attempted to tread water on our respective turbulent emotions.

Purely out of necessity, Christine attempted to sleep as much as possible, and I joined her when I was able, increasingly more often aided by a stiff drink out of sheer desperation – but no night was restful for either of us whatsoever. I was often pulled from my sleep by her screaming beside me, completely lost in the vicious arms of a nightmare that only my insistent coaxing could pull her from. It had quickly gotten to the point that she was afraid to sleep – it seemed that she was only taken under when absolutely no more fight was left in her. I understood that fear well enough. The nightmares plagued us both, taunting us with the cry of an infant that wasn't there, a wailing child that we could neither hold nor comfort. It was clear that the haunting noise was not Estelle's voice – we had never heard its sound. Rather, it was the phantom echoes of a life taken far too soon, a bitter reminder of all that we lost. All I could do was hold her until the terror passed, knowing with immense regret that the underlying sadness deep within her would not be as easy to banish.

My words were utterly useless to her – there were times when my forcedly calmed voice only seemed to cause her more pain, and so I simply resolved to give her as much quiet as she needed. It was exceedingly frustrating to feel so helpless to her suffering, to feel that I had once again failed her, and somewhere deep in my consciousness I feared what that growing distance would do to us in the end. But I had to quell the notion – I had far more prominent issues to face first.

I was unable to get the news of what happened to Paris before Madame Giry left for the trip that she had been planning for quite some time – the visit that in its own way had prompted our tragedy. The day had come that she was set to arrive for her stay with us, and she was entirely ignorant of our family's disastrous and abrupt shattering. I knew it would be shocking news to her, to say the least; certainly not something that I wished to impart upon her myself, as cowardly as that felt. But last she heard all was well with us, and she had to know how severely the meaning of her presence had changed. I arranged for a short letter detailing the events and the circumstances of Estelle's birth to be waiting for Madame when she arrived in London. I was immensely relieved when I received word that she had gotten the letter. Only a short time later, as if driven on by a desperate and innate need to save us somehow, she was at my home.

We said nothing when I answered the door, no words of greeting or polite questions regarding one another's wellbeing during the months that separated us. She knew all that she needed to about the state of our lives, how abruptly things had taken a turn for the worst; anything that had occurred before that time was of little consequence then. It was not necessary to fill the air with the sounds of social decorum; we had never forced niceties for the sake of tradition, always opting to act as the circumstances required of us. She simply nodded sympathetically when I motioned for her to enter the house. To my surprise, Meg followed soon after her mother, muttering her own apologies for our loss and explaining her presence as the result of an unexpected space in her schedule with which she hoped to surprise Christine. I balked at that, knowing that what should have been a joyous reunion had been tainted beyond repair. Still, I could say nothing; their sadness was nearly tangible, and I was suddenly unable to form meaningful words. We did not meet under pleasant circumstances at all – certainly not why Christine had invited Madame in the first place, and that fact was not lost upon me then.

Madame Giry put her hand on my shoulder, meeting my eyes with as much compassion as she had always extended to me, even in past instances when I most certainly didn't deserve it. Yet somehow it was more than I could take in those moments – to my dismay, I still couldn't find any words, couldn't acknowledge her sympathy with even a polite smile or a simple nod of the head to convey any semblance of my gratitude to them both. Rather, I choked back a sob – only one of many in the preceding days – and I found myself in her arms without knowing which of us had made the first step toward one another. I towered over her, yet she held onto me as she would a small child, allowing me to cry and not requiring me to say anything. I was as grateful for that as I was for her presence to begin with – I constantly felt as though I was suffocating, and her act of human compassion was just enough to keep me from going under entirely. Meg placed a gentle, hesitant hand on my shoulder; although I was wholly unused to contact from her, I allowed the gesture.

We three stood like that for some time before mother and daughter made their way up to Christine. I couldn't bear to accompany them just then; instead I remained downstairs, occupying myself with everything and nothing, wandering about my home as lost as I had felt in the beginning of my time in London.

~~oOo~~

The clouds were dark and low on the day of Estelle's funeral – it seemed that the entire world was mourning for her, and the notion seemed to me to be both fitting and mocking all at once. There was no promise of happiness, no light fighting against the shadows that never seemed to truly vanish, even when the harsh light of day encroached behind the veil above us – only that oppressive feeling that the clouds were going to swallow us all remained. The blackness of that world weighed heavily on our very souls; I wasn't so sure that awful feeling would subside even _if_ the sun finally came out. The air was disturbed by a bitterly frigid and steady wind; it was impossibly cold, even for February, and Christine stood shivering violently next to me. I kept my arm tightly around her, but the gesture would do nothing to alleviate her suffering, in any sense of the word.

Despite having to nearly shout to be heard over the turbulent air, the priest spoke as eloquently as he had the night that he stood at our daughter's deathbed and made his appeals; but just the same as that night, his voice echoed dully in my mind. Numbed by grief, I could hardly concentrate on his words, still didn't want to let them reach my heart. Doing so made the day seem all the more real and less like the waking nightmare from which I fervently hoped we would soon escape – I longed for the experience to be just that, a nightmare and nothing more. But I knew that was impossible, could never be true no matter how deeply our heartache dwelled; the thought only made me more miserable as the moments slipped by, as if caught on the wind as quickly as the priest's words.

I looked all around us at the graveside, shocked at how many people I saw in attendance. Beyond Madame Giry, Meg, and Vera, several members of the church that Christine often visited were there, offering kind words of strength and sympathy to us both as they stood dutifully at arm's length to our private suffering. I noticed, with some surprise, that not a one of them had gawked at me; no one seemed to notice the mask. For the first time in my life, I wished that wasn't true. I wished that the reason they eyed me with such sympathy had never come to pass. My daughter's death should not have been the defining event that thrust me back into the folds of society without the fear of hateful reactions inevitably coming to fruition. All those years of longing to be treated with basic human decency, and finally the day had come. But the price of compassion was too high, and I wanted nothing more than to go back and undo it all. I would have endured all the tortures of my past and then some if it meant that Estelle could have lived. I shook my head, reflecting upon the vicious irony of it all – nothing made sense anymore.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. In sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into eternal life."

Thunder rolled in the distance as the priest finished his lamentations. I didn't cry then – I couldn't. It seemed that all of my energy had been sapped from me, any connection to myself that I had once owned seemed far off and unreachable. I could only stand there, dimly aware of my surroundings, just barely cognizant of my wife weeping silently as I held her shivering form tightly in a determined and stony silence. But anything beyond that deep despair meant nothing to me.

Christine and I held white roses – our first and final gift to our daughter, a symbol of the love that we had for our child. When prompted, I stepped forward and tossed mine gently atop the casket, trying with a mighty effort to ignore the pang of despair in my heart at the finality of the action. I wanted nothing more than to pretend that I hadn't just done what I had, but of course I wasn't so lucky. Instead, I focused on remaining calm, nearly forcing myself to remain still despite my anguished and chilled trembling. Christine held her rose as if her very life depended on it, and I made no motion to convince her to let the delicate blossom escape her gloved hand. It was clear that she wasn't ready, and I knew better than to force the issue. Our fellow mourners uttered still more kind words to us as they departed, and I distantly wondered if our lack of responses would be seen as abject rudeness. It didn't matter, really – I didn't care about much beyond the immediate scope of our lives. Madame Giry and Meg were the last to leave; they conveyed that they would wait for us elsewhere, to take as long as we needed. I nodded and thanked them, but said no more.

We stood before the grave, a steady gust of wind effectively pulling apart Christine's rose and pushing the petals into the dark and gaping cavern, swallowing them along with what little hope remained in us. The casket was small – too small, too impossibly fragile, mocking in its ignorance to our suffering. It seemed as though I was noticing it for the first time, and its image before me was deeply unsettling. I shuddered and tightened my grip on Christine, suddenly very desperate to reassure myself that she was still alive and beside me. Raindrops began to fall, slow but stubbornly steady before growing in intensity, the final insult that mirrored the chaos within us – that seemingly unending pain was just as enduring as the increasing downpour. Christine remained silent, shivering uncomfortably but seeming to be entirely unaware of the onslaught of discomfort on her part; the entire scene was torture.

"We should leave," I said softly, "I'm not so sure your body can handle this right now."

She sighed, "Perhaps. But I'm not sure if I can," she hesitated, "It feels wrong to leave her."

I turned her to face me and weighed my words, not wanting to sound unkind, "Christine, that's not her. It's only her body. I don't want you feeling like you're abandoning her."

"I _know_ , I know all of that. But…" she paused fretfully, searching for the right words but soon giving up with a frustrated cry.

"I don't want any of this either," I said evenly, knowing that the sentiments of her heart matched my own.

She nodded and smiled sadly, the first instance of that expression that I had seen since before Estelle was born. It was painful to witness, and I wondered distantly if I would ever see that radiant, genuine smile that I had fallen in love with again when it was all said and done. I kissed her forehead and held her for a time as she seemed to gather her strength once more. Without any more words, she tossed her rose into the grave, finally letting it go in a way that neither of us would be able to for Estelle herself. It was yet another terribly painful moment for us both.

When we met Madame Giry and Meg at the gates of the cemetery and boarded the borrowed carriage, the torrential rain truly began, mirroring our anguish like so many tears before it.

~~oOo~~

The house was eerily silent when we returned, unsurprisingly empty yet terrifyingly hollow somehow. It was as devoid of light and joy as the world beyond our doorstep, and the notion was not lost upon me that it would very likely remain that way for quite some time – certainly until our hearts attained even the smallest semblance of healing. We were utterly exhausted; the funeral alone had been just another onslaught of heartbreak for us both, but the necessity of attending had been as physically taxing on Christine's recovery as I had suspected, and that fact made me very nervous. Her anguish had prolonged that recovery, and I was loath to add more occasions to remind her of that pain and therefore hinder any natural progress she would make. As it stood, it was all I could do to convince her to take even the smallest meal or to simply drink water for the sake of her health; asking any more of her seemed cruel. I feared that her mourning might be the death of her – I sincerely wondered if she would quite literally die of a broken heart. The very thought filled me with dread, and I tried to suppress it, thinking superstitiously that allowing that kind of fear would only invite more misfortune.

I suggested that she return upstairs and try to sleep, and looking at me with impossibly weary eyes she complied without question. Meg accompanied her there in the hopes of giving her the singular kind of comfort that only their long friendship could supply, and I didn't worry about Christine's wellbeing. She was in good hands, I was sure. I remained downstairs with Madame Giry; it wasn't long before she noticed that I was shivering, still quite cold but otherwise unaware of my discomfort. She in turn leveled her own suggestion that she make me tea, but I knew that I would be obliged to take the serving whether I cared to or not. I had known her long enough to know when her motherly instincts would overpower me to win a battle of my own stubbornness. I moved further into the house as if in a haze, following Madame and doing as she instructed. I sat obediently at the table in the dining room, feeling awkward and uncomfortable being served in my own house and thinking idly that we so seldom used the space to begin with. It seemed unnerving somehow to occupy that room then. With a sigh of resignation I realized that perhaps I simply just wasn't going to be content anywhere I was.

"We haven't had many opportunities to really talk since I've been here," she mused almost apologetically as she joined me, "I'm sure I don't need to ask how you're handling this," she coaxed softly when I didn't reply immediately, opting instead to stare into my tea in complete silence and avoid taking in its warmth. But I knew I would have to respond eventually.

"No, you don't," I said flatly, wishing that she would let the conversation end there but knowing from experience that I would not be so fortunate – she wouldn't allow me to get lost in my own thoughts any longer, and as much as I wanted to resent her for that, I knew that she did so with only my best interest in mind. I tried to the best of my capacity to remain calm, but soon realized that doing so was a far larger feat than I had initially expected.

"I know that this isn't easy."

"Do you?" I snapped.

"I know grief," she continued evenly, "I won't begin to pretend to know exactly what it's like for the two of you."

"It's truly _hell_ ," I sighed, "I'll leave it at that."

"How is Christine holding up? She won't speak to me about it."

I shrugged, "As well as expected."

"She needs us right now," she said softly, "She needs you."

"I'm _aware_ of that," I said with unnecessary defensiveness, allowing my frayed nerves to continue to skew my behavior in spite of my better judgment.

"Are you?"

"I'm doing what I can," I insisted, a warning tone entering my voice.

She sighed, responding with impressive patience, "I know that, Erik. I know."

"I apologize," I said, feeling quite guilty for my behavior, "I'm not angry with you."

"Who is it that you're angry with?" she asked softly.

"God," I laughed humorlessly, then continued almost inaudibly, "Myself."

She rose from her chair, intending to take her now-empty teacup into the kitchen beyond when it slipped from her grasp and fell upon the hardwood floor. It broke instantly into two large pieces, a curious phenomenon; I was surprised that it didn't break into several smaller fragments all at once. She made to pick it up when I halted her, kneeling to do the job myself despite her protests. I sighed wearily as I stood upright, holding the fractured halves in one hand and staring at them with my mind miles away. Before I realized what I was doing, I heaved the pieces against the opposite wall as hard as I could, reveling in the sound of them shattering beyond repair. Breathing hard – partially from the short-lived effort and partially from the weight of my sadness – I stood otherwise completely still, tears burning my eyes and blurring my vision as I willed them not to escape. In my grief I had become too angry, but the sensation wouldn't leave me despite how badly I wanted to rid myself of that feeling.

"Not Christine?" Madame Giry continued calmly – bravely, even – as if she had not only seconds before witnessed the worst parts of me escaping once again.

" _No_. Of course not," I said, appalled and nearly shouting in sarcasm, "Should I be?"

"Certainly not," she bristled, finally allowing her frustration to shine through, "But I have to wonder, under these circumstances, what's going through your mind. How _you're_ reacting to this."

I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand, "I don't blame her, if _that's_ what you mean."

She looked at me evenly before asking, "But doesshe know that?"

I hesitated, "I'm not sure."

"Talk to your wife," she responded sternly.

"I would if she would let me. She's not ready."

"She won't be for quite some time, I'm sure. She's in pain, but she'll never begin to heal if she doesn't understand," she sighed, "You must remember, all of this, it was just an accident."

"Do you think you need to _convince_ me of that?" I shouted, raising my voice higher still as I continued my raging, "I _know_ that it was an accident – it was just a stupid, _meaningless fucking accident,_ and now we have to live with it," I paused, my cries still echoing in the air with resounding force, before continuing miserably, "And for _what? Why her?_ "

Madame Giry didn't respond – the answer to my questions was certainly not within the realm of human understanding, and no words could be said to justify or make sense of the nightmare that Christine and I so regretfully shared. Rather, Madame looked upon me with unmasked pity, and finally I could not take the storm of emotions that raged within me any longer. Without another word, feeling as though my voice had left with my anger, I collapsed back into the chair. Only then was I able to cry – I sat there shuddering, my head in my hands as I gave myself to my misery. My thoughts raced disjointedly, and although I made a mighty effort to compose myself, that peace did not immediately return to me. I wept as I had the night that Estelle died, and I could think of nothing else beyond our world painted and defined by that tragedy.

"My boy," Madame Giry said softly as she rested her hands on my shoulders, "My poor boy."

"I don't know what to do," I said in a mournful and shaking voice, hanging my head low and practically begging her for salvation. Yet I didn't know exactly what I meant, what I truly needed from her then. I only knew without a doubt that I feared that every shadow in the world was looming, waiting to swallow us into the void of still more torture. I didn't know how to fight that, and I didn't know how to carry on – how either of us ever could as I cried, "I'm scared to death."

~~oOo~~

Christine

I startled awake at the sound of Erik's shouts ringing through the house like a mourning bell, dulled initially by my weariness but slowly becoming painfully clear. I had no way of knowing what prompted his outburst, nor what Madame Giry had done in response; I knew only that he was voicing his pain. It was upsetting to me to begin with, but what had unnerved me the most were the words themselves – the conviction with which he voiced his thoughts. Although I couldn't yet actively admit it to myself, somewhere in the deepest parts of me I knew that his sentiments weren't lies, but somehow it seemed to me that they _should_ have been. He should have been placating me on the surface, alight with his anger toward me inside his broken heart. He should have blamed me, yet it seemed that he didn't. Deeper still, some part of me knew that he had no true reason to, that my guilt stemmed from my grief and the abruptness of our loss. But I silenced the notion every time it even tried to reach my consciousness and stay there. I sincerely blamed myself for losing Estelle, and the pain that such responsibility caused was nearly unbearable. That my beloved husband was sharing that nightmare with me only prolonged my suffering – he had more than enough reason to hate me, I was sure. And so I ignored his words fervently, lost myself in that denial and opted to starve myself of the compassion that he was so desperate to lend me.

I had known grief in my life, but nothing compared to what I experienced at the death of my daughter. Losing my parents – namely my father – oh, that had been traumatic in its own right, equally as unexpected as Estelle's death and serving to leave a terrible void in my soul; yet in that consuming sadness there was comfort. I knew that my parents had been ill, had been released from their suffering and reunited at long last, and I had that knowledge and the memories of their unwavering love to sustain me through the long and empty years. But I was bitterly aware that I didn't have the blessing of that kind of comfort to accompany the mourning of my daughter – only the prevailing sensation of failure and misery, of guilt and longing. My parents had been my protectors – my father had been insistent upon Madame Giry taking me in as her ward, and in return she had granted me all the love that she had shown her own daughter. Yet I could not protect _my_ child in spite of the examples set before me. My daughter was not sick, she required no mercy from a long-suffered illness. She was simply born prematurely because I _could not_ protect her – I could not keep her safe from the world, especially when she needed me the most. I felt absolutely certain that I had failed her, and that fault was entirely my own. I had little else to take from my too-brief time with her other than that dreadful understanding, and so my grief for her was magnified beyond my ability to endure it.

My grief and my guilt warred constantly, exhausting and overwhelming me to no end, and it seemed unwaveringly true that there was no relief in sight. When I was awake, I balked at any showing of kindness toward me. When I slept, I saw her face, heard my mocking thoughts that reminded me of all that could been and of everything that had been taken away, solely because I chose to be stubborn and not allow anyone to help me more than I deemed necessary. Something as simple as wanting to do _housework_ for myself had cost my daughter her life, and it was my fault. It was truly shameful, and I could not let go of that. My heart ached constantly, and I allowed it – I deserved as much.

When I heard Erik yelling downstairs the night of Estelle's funeral, I was neither surprised nor frightened by his visceral reaction. Oddly enough, I was angry with him – just as I was angry with myself. The world could have ended that very night for all it mattered to me; nothing beyond my grief seemed significant. I chastised myself for longing to be comforted by him once again, but I opted instead to dissolve into tears and remain as isolated from all else as I could. I had lost count of how many times I had given myself to that anguish, but the amount mattered little. I knew only that I felt utterly and increasingly lost within myself, as miserable and frightened as I had been in that awful realm between unconsciousness and reality. Meg was at my side in an instant, whispering gently in her sincere effort to comfort me and attempting to ease me back into as peaceful a slumber as I could be expected to achieve. With time, it worked, but only to the smallest extent; I soon found myself once again in a wakeful doze, immersed in the recurring nightmares that accompanied my daughter's passing.

In my dreams I cried out for her – but as in waking, I could never reach her.

~~oOo~~

Several days had passed, but I paid little attention to the forward progression of time. It had become meaningless, and I simply didn't care to mark its existence. It seemed to me that I had no real reason to do so anymore – everything that I had known and had drawn both my peace of mind and my strength from was far and away from me.

When I was finally strong enough I was able to move about the house freely, but I did so as if I was hypnotized. My routine continued much the same as it always had since Erik and I had arrived in London, but with the starkly noticeable difference that one significant person was missing from our daily lives. The tiny soul within me was long-gone; no longer did she flutter and wiggle below my heart, insisting that I grant her my full attention. There were times when I would absentmindedly place my hands over my abdomen as I had grown accustomed to for so many weeks before, only to feel the endless pang of heartbreak at realizing that the little life had ended – there was nothing to look forward to anymore. As a result, my life seemed to lack all purpose, any actions I took were impossibly meaningless and unfulfilling – often I only moved with the innate need to meet the requirements of instinctive self-preservation, but as such it was a forced and half-hearted sentiment. When I became cognizant of that fact, it seemed as if all of my motivation was instantly stolen from me. It was all I could do to leave my bed each morning, and even then I truly could not understand why I bothered.

Madame Giry and Meg stayed with us for a time, later opting to house themselves at an inn rather than oblige us to care for them as ordinary houseguests. It would have been too painful to do so, and I was sure that they knew that – it didn't need to be made explicit, but rather it was simply a matter of truth. They did, however, insist upon visiting us during the day, assisting me in whatever task they felt required their presence and attempting to guide me through my mourning in every way they knew how. But each moment spent with my loved ones only served to bring me further pain and guilt, and I wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

At the beginning, I remained all but entirely silent. I spoke only when spoken to or when the situation required it of me – and doing so with a very short temper at that. Erik almost constantly attempted to speak with me, meaning to comfort me and to try and pull me from the darkness from which not so long ago I had longed to save him. His efforts were more often than not left ignored – I had resolved myself to the idea that he should hate me, and that notion only served to compel me to push him further away. It became clear to me that he was growing frustrated and increasingly more concerned as the days passed, and as such his stubbornness only prevailed that much more – yet never to any avail. Angry and hurt, eventually he had chosen to immerse himself in his work once more, rendered at a loss at how to move forward and obliging my heated requests to be left alone. And although he was clearly unsure about how to manage his consistent ineffectiveness at reaching me, he seemed to be otherwise ignorant of the origins of my fervent desire for solitude – he only knew that I was mourning, he vaguely suspected the presence of guilt, but certainly not the magnitude of it.

I made no attempt to explain myself to him; I felt too lost within a black and expansive maze within my mind riddled with regret and confusion to even begin to help him to understand me. His attempts to comfort me were sincere, but time and time again I could not let them in. It was suffocating, that isolation, born entirely of my stubborn self-imprisonment. I realized that, for the first time since we met, I had been living through but a glimpse of the life of isolation that he had endured for so many years, lost in a darkness that was all-consuming and quite frightening. I was almost entirely unable to rid myself of it, as painful and dreadfully lonesome it was. But the reasons for my despair were vastly different than his, and that fact only made me feel more disconnected from the world.

There was a point – perhaps only a fortnight after Estelle's funeral – that the part of me which longed for humanity was screaming to be released from my self-imposed torture in spite of my clouded judgment insisting that I was better off on my own. Where before I was able to quell the urge by telling myself that it was a wholly earned punishment, suddenly that innate need for _something_ which had once only whispered had become so insistent that I had no choice but to answer its call. Madame Giry and Meg had departed for the evening, and I sought Erik out without needing to be prompted for the first time that night, finding him leaning intently over his drafting table in the study but seeming to be attending to his work with very little ease. Unaware of my presence, he cursed at an error in his design unseen by me from my vantage point and balled up the paper, heaving a weary sigh as if the lack of productivity had been entirely exhausting. He turned when he heard me enter the room completely and acknowledged me silently, perhaps even hopefully – but he left the next step in the dance up to me.

I couldn't bring myself to move, couldn't utter a single word even for his sake. Instead, I turned and fled the room as quickly as I had entered it, distantly wondering how much longer we could go on in that manner before one of us broke entirely. My heart ached when I heard his weary and resigned sigh at my hasty departure.

~~oOo~~

The following night, it came to pass that _I_ proved to be the one of us that broke first, and nearly disastrously so at that. It was an abrupt affair, impossibly frantic and terribly frightening in its intensity, hurtling us both into a nightmarish whirlwind of angered confusion and anguished pleas for release from our seemingly endless pain, but upon reflection it would seem that the events which unfolded were quite inevitable. I was simply too lost and exhausted to fight my turbulent emotions or to control myself any longer – it had become far too overwhelming, and the force of that tumult was mounting with each passing day, begging for an outlet yet never being acknowledged properly. It was in ignoring that call that I had nearly made one heavy mistake after another; it seemed as though I was actively seeking out ways to draw the pain out and prolong my suffering, simultaneously craving to attain peace within my heart yet entirely unable to do so with any modicum of rational thought or behavior. Instead, I acted upon pure instincts born of the darkest parts of myself, and my desire to be comforted warring with that need for punishing self-destruction clashed in a storm of the further shattering of already broken hearts.

Without consciously realizing that I had again made the steps to find him, I came upon Erik once more – this time in the parlor, lying upon the divan with one leg bent in a gesture that seemed to beg for even the smallest semblance of relaxation. I might have thought he was simply lounging, truly content, were he not holding his fingers up to his temples, his eyes shut tightly as if he were in pain. His sudden grimace and groan of discomfort confirmed that idea.

"Does your head hurt again?" I asked abruptly, startling him. He sat upright once he became aware of my presence.

"Yes," he said, looking upon me with tired eyes.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He hesitated, "Will you come sit with me a while?"

"I…I can't.

" _Please_ ," he requested emphatically, as if with a renewed determination, "I just want to talk to you. I _need_ to talk to you."

"No."

He looked at me with thinly veiled annoyance before asking, "Have you eaten yet?"

" _No_ ," I snapped.

"You need to," he insisted, ignoring my own anger.

"I'm fine," I sighed, not wishing to engage in another argument over my wellbeing, "Don't worry over me," I added with some guilt, knowing once again that he was truly worried for me – I had certainly given him more than enough reason to. But remembering that only caused me more internal anguish, and I quickly found myself making a mighty effort to control myself, all the while knowing that such efforts would be short-lived.

"Christine – "

"Just don't," I pled.

"Look at me. At some point – "

"– I said _no._ "

He sighed, not bothering to hide either his frustration or his sadness. We stared at one another for a time, both challenging and resignedly unsure of what either of us should do next.

"At some point, you need to speak," he said evenly, breaking the silence first.

I shook my head, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say what you need to. But _something_ has to give. I don't know how to help you, Christine," he admitted sadly, "I need you to tell me how."

"I can't."

"Then at least come back to me."

"I haven't left you," I responded numbly.

"Are you so sure?"

" _Stop it._ "

"Don't be angry with me. Just – "

"– I'm not," I said ruefully, "You didn't say anything wrong."

"Tell me how to help you," he insisted again, looking at me with such sincerity that I was immediately overwhelmed by the sight, "I _won't_ stand aside and watch while you let yourself die."

Tears sprang to my eyes as I began to tremble. He eyed me with concern.

"I can't do this," I whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Please…"

"It's alright – "

At the sound of his placating tone, at his gesture of trying to reach me to which I had become so accustomed over the long and agonizing weeks, I couldn't bring myself to hold my words back, "I don't want to be here. I don't want any of this," I began to shout, suddenly unable to keep the pain locked away within me any longer, "Nothing is alright. It's _not alright!_ How can you say that? How can you even stand to be in this room with me now?"

"Calm down – "

"Everything is broken!" I screamed, ignoring him and demanding, " _Why?_ "

He sighed, "I don't know."

I couldn't remain with him a moment longer. Entirely consumed with despair and anger, I ran upstairs and to the nursery – the space entirely unoccupied and stubbornly unvisited – almost unconsciously and abruptly overtaken by a forceful urge to take action in the worst possible manner.

When I entered the darkened space, illuminated only by the sliver of light encroaching from the hallway beyond, I looked all around me wildly. With a veil of tears stinging my eyes, I only saw before me all that should have been my daughter's through the cloud of misery that suffocated me; I was bitterly reminded that I should have doted upon her in that very room. But there it stood, fully stocked and ready to bear witness to my love and nurturing and yet sickeningly hollow, echoing and devoid of the joy for which it was intended. Since Estelle was born, I had not dared to set foot in that space, fearing for my fragile heart if I did so. But looking upon it that night, my heart shattered once and for all, and I was unable to control myself. As if I were possessed, I became violent, completely overtaken by a desperate and anguished rage and meaning to destroy everything in my path – every broken promise that mocked me. I wanted all evidence of that space, its necessity and its painfully obvious emptiness gone from my life for good, as if taking it all away would take the agonizing memories from my mind then and forever onward. I thought of little else beyond that – I simply wanted to do something, _anything_ that would finally release me.

When Erik reached me only seconds after my own arrival, he took me roughly by the shoulders in an effort to cease my actions, but I struggled against him nonetheless.

"Stop this!" he shouted as I continued to try and free myself from his grasp.

"Leave me alone!"

" _Stop!_ You shouldn't be in here."

"Let me do this!" I screamed, "I want this gone, I want it all gone. I want her _out of my mind!_ "

"You don't mean that – "

"– Let me go!" I shouted again, pushing him away from me roughly.

He conceded, albeit hesitantly, and backed up against the wall in a gesture of pure exhaustion. I knew that he hadn't been sleeping, knew that he couldn't find rest any more successfully than I could, and the toll it was taking on him – coupled with his pain at his ineffectiveness of comforting me in the wake of our loss – was painfully evident as I witnessed his every move. I recalled that there had been more than one occasion where I came upon him lying uncomfortably upon the divan downstairs, sleeping restlessly and never for long. I knew that he was feeling that absolute weariness now, knew that he had been drinking again and that the alcohol was only used as a desperate last attempt at achieving even the smallest semblance of peace in the night. And I hated myself for that, for everything that had led to so many steps backward for us both. He slid down the wall the moment he met it, sitting upon the floor and resting his forearms upon his bent knees in a gesture of weary resignation.

"Fine, Christine. Do what you must," he sighed, dismissively waving toward the center of the room, "But know that you'll regret this. You can't undo what happens in this room tonight. Believe me."

I wanted to throttle him for his patience – I would have rather faced up to his unpredictable temper than my own demons. I felt as if I were shattering from the inside out, as if my grief was pulling me apart and forever away from the world, and nothing I did or said could quell that terrifying sensation. I turned away from the scene over which I planned to unleash my destructive anguish and faced him squarely, suddenly needing nothing more than to give my rage yet another avenue from my broken heart.

" _Why_ are you here?" I shouted at him hoarsely, utterly lost to myself.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't hurt yourself," he said flatly.

"I don't need you to _mind_ me," I snapped, "I'm not a child."

He sighed, "I didn't say that you were."

"Look at yourself," I shook my head, ignoring his response, "You can barely keep your eyes open. Just _go_. I'd rather be alone."

"I'm more concerned for your safety right now."

" _Don't be_."

"I'm not leaving you here alone."

"You should," I insisted, "I want you to."

" _Why?_ " he demanded, obviously unnerved both by my words and by my uncharacteristically rash actions, for even though I had been snappish with everyone around me, never before had I displayed such anger and violence or blatant disregard for my own safety. The unmasked fear in his eyes only served to make me feel that much worse.

"I deserve it," I said almost inaudibly.

He paused, obviously confused by my statement before continuing, "What do you mean?"

"This is my fault," I said miserably, my voice raising once again, "Estelle is _dead_ because of me. You must believe that as well."

"I don't," he said, narrowing his eyes as he stood to face me, "Not at all, and I never have. It's understandable that you would feel guilty about losing her, but you are _not_ at fault, and you've let it consume you for far too long. Everything you believe has been skewed by it. But you can't go on punishing yourself like this anymore. You didn't do _anything_ wrong."

"I can't stop thinking about it. I shouldn't have – "

"– You can't change the past. But you _are not_ to blame for this, Christine. No one thinks that you are. How can I convince you otherwise?"

I shook my head and stepped back when he moved to take my hands, "I failed her."

"You have to stop believing that. The guilt will burn you alive if you don't," he said hesitantly.

"Erik – "

"It's _scaring me_ , how you're acting. I don't want to lose you."

"If you're angry – "

"– I'm _not_ angry," he insisted impatiently, almost desperately, as if he only had one last chance to save me with his words, "I never was, I've told you that. But I'm absolutely terrified. When Estelle was born, when you couldn't wake up…I thought I lost you. Don't make me go through that again," he demanded pleadingly, his eyes shining with fearful tears at his memories, " _Please_. I can't lose you, too."

We looked at one another for a time, both frozen in our respective thoughts, our memories of pain and fear. Suddenly, I couldn't find my voice – it was if the desperate rage to which I had given myself in an effort to break away from my insistent anguish had been pulled from me like a receding tide, and all at once I was left only with the regret and pure sadness that had always lived just beneath my guilt. Erik took me into his arms wordlessly, holding me so tightly that I was sure that he needed to convince himself as much as me that we were both still alive before one another, and at that singular display of affection I didn't protest – as badly as I wanted to, no longer could I find it within myself to fight his compassion. His words echoed in my mind; his sincerity was plain, and yet I trembled as he held me. I was too consumed with misery to believe in anything, had no idea how to let the guilt be freed from my soul once and for all. I didn't know if I could take his words to heart and let them heal me. Instead, I wound my arms around him, utterly unable to think clearly – I could only cry.

"Please don't let me go," I sobbed, my mind in complete turmoil but desperate to keep him close to my heart; at that moment I knew without a doubt only that, in spite of what I had tried to convince myself, I needed him very badly.

"Never." he said, his voice muffled in my neck as he held me tighter, and I returned the gesture with as much fervor, feeling a sudden and frantic desire to finally return to the world somehow.

It was only for a flitting instance, but suddenly it was as if the sun had come out and shone just the briefest moments of comfort into my aching soul. Only slightly then, but the rays of acceptance were just beginning to show on the horizon, and I had to believe in those dreadful moments following my terrible expression of anguish that it meant something more – I had to believe that the dust would settle somehow, even if time would be slow in bringing that peace. In such a short amount of time, I had experienced more torture than I thought I was capable of enduring, and for so long had I remained lost in the void of mourning without finding the will to learn how to break free from is icy grasp. I broke that night because of it, but I was at last ready to allow Erik to pick up the pieces.

We were still in so much pain, it was clear – still lost and terrified as we navigated the realities of our shared heartbreak. But that night, lost in one another's tearful embrace, it finally seemed as though we might be granted an existence in which that pain would not be allowed to swallow us whole any longer. If it meant surviving, I had to believe that could be true.


	24. The Only Hope For Me Is You

**Author's Note:** _Well slap my ass and call me Sparky, I'm FINALLY updating! God, I'm bad at this. :p But on a serious note, I do apologize for once again semi-abandoning this. Definitely not intended. I won't make a sob-story fest out of this explanation, but know that I did have a bad wrist sprain that prevented typing of any sort (and piano playing as well, but that's a rant for another day), followed by the Bullshit Fest known as Midterms. And here I am taking 21 units. T_T Didn't think that one out too well... But anywhoodles, I'm back and happy to be updating! Also, I've made a side-blog on Tumblr dedicated solely to my art and writing projects, so feel free to check that out by searching marymadsonfiction. You can also find my main blog by searching spooky-mormon-hell-dream. *shrugs at URL* I'm a creature of habit. Welp, with that shameless plug out of the way, I'll get back to story tidbits. This is a hella long chapter, and very interesting to write. Having to go over the grieving process from the perspective of a mother was difficult of course, but humbling as well, so I was glad to be able to explore that aspect of Christine's character here. I do hope I did it justice and that the overall pacing was realistic. I also hope that this chapter will be satisfying to y'all. I know things seem slow right now, but a) look forward to some fluff and light smut toward the end of the chapter and b) all hell is going to break loose before this phic comes to a close. But again, that's a rant for another day...but yeah, shit's gonna go down...like, a lot. *dun dun dun* Lastly, the title of this chapter comes from the My Chemical Romance song of the same name. And while the album it comes from is another one of MCR's dystopian-esque rock-opera types, the song itself is definitely one of my favorites of theirs in general even though the album's theme is a bit different from my phic. But as usual, I was glad to be able to use it here. Welp, that should be it for my ramblings. Remember to read, review, maybe check out the Tumblr, share your thoughts, maybe predictions even, and enjoy!_

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Chapter 24 – The Only Hope For Me Is You

Christine

I cannot say how long we remained in one another's trembling embrace in that dark and silent nursery, only that our tears seemed for all the world to meld with the ache that our hearts shared as my mind grasped at any sense of reason and healing that was just beginning to shine through. In those first tentative moments, I knew only that when we parted it seemed that the entire world had shifted beneath us. Imperceptibly at first, time had begun to move forward again, faint yet insistent – I was able to acknowledge its passing without the consuming resentment and regret that had endlessly haunted me in the preceding weeks since having to say goodbye to Estelle. Everything about our lives until that pivotal night that led us to cling so desperately to each other was the same, yet entirely different; we were no longer the same people, it was clear. Yet the familiarity of Erik's touch was enough to begin soothing my aching heart.

It seemed that the sincerity of his compassion had evoked in me that desperately needed feeling of comfort at last, finally compelling me to press on in spite of my treacherous mind obliging me to consider otherwise, to allow myself to let my burdens rest – or at the very least, to understand and truly believe that such ideas were within the realm of my own fragile capabilities.

That night, before we made to leave the room, Erik took me up in his arms and kissed me – a gesture that was neither chaste nor impassioned, but rather proved to be filled with all the tenderness he felt for me. That simple act served as a further reminder of his devotion, a wordless vow that in spite of everything we had endured, in spite of so many hurtful and pained words passed between us, he wasn't going to leave me alone in the dark to suffer – if only I would allow him to remain by my side. He had known the suffering of isolation far too many times in his life to allow me to curse myself with that same enduring punishment, but I had to actively make the choice to accept his words. Long ago had we agreed to walk our paths together; I could sense the relief he felt in his every move that I had at last made the decision to learn to let go of the blame I clutched to myself so tightly and to brave the coming times of mourning – even knowing that the road ahead wouldn't be any easier than the dark days we were leaving behind.

"I'll never let you go," he repeated as he pulled away from me, not releasing me entirely and continuing in earnest, "I promise. But _I need you_ to promise me that you'll be alright, that somehow you can understand that this wasn't your fault. I won't let you do this harm to yourself, but I can only do so much on my own. Promise me you'll try."

I could only nod in response, but in the gesture I told no lies.

His words resonated within my heart. I knew that he was right, I had known that much from the beginning, but rather than let the truth of that sentiment heal the dreadful ache of grief within me in the proper way, I was compelled instead to let my anguish simmer, and for far too long. I was so convinced that I was entirely to blame for losing Estelle that I hadn't dared to consider any other alternative. It was still exceedingly difficult to let that kind of pain fade away, even slowly, but there were times when the truth of realization and understanding were impossible to argue against, and in those flitting moments after it had seemed that I was broken beyond repair, I was able to hear Erik clearly. His pain mirrored my own, for I was well aware that he too had shouldered the burden of blame, though for vastly different reasons. We had lived through two sides of the same reality. But it was in being so hopelessly lost in our grief that we were finally able to come together in the end, and for that I was immensely grateful – I knew that the outcome could have been far more bitter for us both had we remained so forcefully isolated in that pain.

He ushered me out of the nursery – there would be a time when we would have to reenter that space and decide upon how to approach it from there, but that night was certainly not the proper time, and we both knew that without having to dwell on those facts. Rather, I allowed him to place his hand gently on the small of my back and direct me out into the hallway, as far as possible from the room that haunted me while still being obliged to acknowledge its existence. From that point on, I knew that I couldn't allow it to torture me; I had to let Estelle rest.

I was only just beginning to see hope – I didn't doubt that – but to allow it to take hold and stay with me was another matter entirely.

~~oOo~~

Despite making a few strides forward, I still found it extremely difficult to let go completely. It was discouraging to say the least, and frustrating to no end. While I was not so entirely numbed by grief and guilt, it was quite apparent that my remorse would not be so easily banished – indeed I still found myself having to be convinced to rise from my bed, to eat an entire meal, and much to Erik's dismay the effects of this behavior continued to be very obvious. I knew how badly it frightened him to see me in such a state; keeping to my promise, I more often than not found myself at least _trying_ to make the effort to pull through that dark sadness. But it was a feat for which I was not prepared. I continued to feel that utter frustration – I sincerely wanted to make the pain stop, to do so properly, but I was entirely unsure of how to do so. I didn't know how to keep my mourning from overtaking me completely, nor did I think it was possible. I had stopped blaming myself as fervently as the weeks went by, but I was simultaneously convinced that I should just let it end there.

Time was progressing, entirely heedless of my continued suffering, but I felt that I ought to simply halt the progress of my own life to the best of my capacity. I would not stop living, but if I should find little fulfilment in that life, then so be it. In being perfectly honest with myself, even in my vehement attempts to dismiss such awful ideas, perhaps a part of me still wondered if I truly _was_ solely to blame – if I deserved the punishment of isolation after all. I tried to quell the notion, constantly combating my desire to give up with my stronger wish to persevere, but more often than not I became lost between those two realities. When it became all too clear that my troubling thoughts and painful emotions were only continuing to war with my need to move forward, Erik made one final attempt to bring me back to the light. For so long had I been the one of us in that role that I was not expecting his gesture. But it seemed that he was ardently wishing to comfort me, as he always had, and when even the sincerest of words had steadfastly failed with the exception of that fateful night in the nursery, he knew that he had to act beyond the limits of spoken sentiments alone.

It was early April, and I felt rather more despondent than I had been in the preceding months since Estelle's death. Madame Giry and Meg had long since departed, quite regretful at having to do so but knowing that they had responsibilities to meet at the Opera Populaire and its new season. Their departure was a truly sad occasion, and their absence was indeed apparent in spite of my forced distance during their visit. I missed them terribly; but I certainly couldn't ask them to put their lives and priorities aside for my sake, and so I accepted our tearful goodbyes with as much bravery as I could spare. I had requested that they not mention our loss to Raoul, and while I had only some weeks prior received the surprising news of his own upcoming engagement, I had heard nothing from my childhood friend directly in quite some time. Between his silence and the Girys' departure, I felt my emotions were once again in quite an uproar.

The coming spring had served to awaken the rest of the world, the buds and blossoms quickly renewed life around us and promised to bring still more life in their wake – but to me, such bright happiness only served as a stark reminder of what that season _should_ have been. Had everything gone right, Estelle would have been born that month; she would have likely been healthy and happy, and our small family would be intact and content. The month of April indeed brought life out of the coldness of the previous season, but to me it was as vast and frigid as the blackest of winter nights. Erik knew this without having to be told explicitly – he too felt that pang of regret at all the possibilities we had lost, and I knew it was just as difficult for him to face the world in its current state.

I awoke that morning to find him already gone from our bed, and oddly enough gone from the house entirely. A note stated that he would return soon, not to worry, but even with his assurances I was curious as to why he had left in the first place. He didn't have any designs due for presentation, no real reason to be about the city, and even when he did he did not enjoy the necessity of leaving our home. It was as much his safe haven as it was a place of residence – in time, it was only there that he felt he could be relatively content, even when the worst of our mourning made him want to draw into himself once more. But he combated that urge stubbornly, deciding once and for all to no longer be resigned to take the onslaught of painful memories nor to allow them to break him further. Although subtle and born of tragic circumstances, it was a remarkable change in him; he did it for my benefit as much as his own, knowing that it was his turn to bring strength to the both of us, and there were times when I envied him of that resolve. I still felt rather incomplete, just barely motivated to face the passing of each day, but enough of my heart remained that I could be sincerely grateful for his efforts. Within our home, he felt braver, and so it was indeed surprising to me that he had ventured away from it, certainly without telling me beforehand of his purpose.

But he had insisted that I needn't worry, and so I convinced myself that I would oblige him in that request as best as I could. It wasn't long after I had risen and prepared myself for the day that I heard him return. I immediately went downstairs to greet him, deciding what I wanted to ask him first. I had no sooner met him in the entryway when he asked me to join him in the parlor, but beyond that simple request he remained silent.

We sat upon the divan and I tried to understand his expression, but it was unreadable.

"You're always the early riser," I teased, "What had you out this morning?"

"Don't you mean at all?" he responded with a smile that was almost shy.

"I thought it went without saying."

"Of course."

"Well?" I pressed.

"I was in the city," he said evasively, "I've brought you something."

I studied him in confusion, readying myself to ask for a proper explanation when he reached into his pocket and produced a small jeweler's box, handing it to me with some hesitation.

"What is this?" I asked.

"Open it," he prompted.

Inside the box, resting neatly upon the velvet lining as if placed with great care, were two small golden crosses on chains, necklaces that were neither gaudy nor subtle. They sparkled in the morning sunlight that streamed through the open curtains, and I was immediately overtaken by breathless wonder at their beauty. It was clear that, although his motivation for doing so remained unspoken, Erik had considered these very carefully before purchasing them.

"My goodness," I whispered.

"One is for you, the other for me," he explained, "I saw the first one some time ago. I had intended to give it to you for our anniversary, but with all that's happened to us, it seemed like I should get them both before that date."

"But why?"

"For Estelle," he said softly, and at my sharp intake of breath he continued in a rush, "I don't quite know how to explain this properly, but I wanted something for us to mark her time here. Something to remind us that she had once existed. And although I won't voice my _opinion_ of God at the moment, a part of me has to believe that at least Estelle is somewhere better. That she's at peace, and maybe there's some meaning in that after all, because otherwise I honestly can't find a way to understand why God would have taken her, other than to be with…" he trailed off, suddenly becoming lost in thoughts that had obviously plagued his mind for quite some time. But it was only for the briefest of moments before he looked at me with concern and continued, "I wanted to give you something more tangible, something just for her."

"Erik," I started, but it seemed as though I couldn't form any meaningful words. What he had said, the reason behind his gift was more touching than I could bear, and I could only shake my head in the hopes that doing so might prompt a way to truly show my gratitude.

He, however, immediately mistook the gesture as one of immense pain, "I'm sorry, Christine. If this is too much – "

I snapped the jeweler's box shut to keep the crosses from falling out and quickly moved toward him, wrapping my arms around him so fervently that for an instant he stayed frozen in place. But it wasn't long before he understood my meaning and held me just as tightly.

"I love you," I whispered as new tears sprung to my eyes.

"I love you, too."

~~oOo~~

His gesture, in the end, had proven to be a significant turning point for us. From that time forward, we both wore those crosses every day. They had developed quickly into a symbol of our daughter's memory beyond what few mementos we already possessed, as Erik had hoped – and just as well as a reminder to mark the singular day that our hearts not only continued unhindered in their healing, but that we truly did possess the strength to move on when it was all said and done. They were a reminder that we were _allowed_ to, that not doing so would serve no purpose nor give Estelle's life the respect it deserved. It was clear that it was imperative that we understood those truths. Despite what Erik did or did not believe – despite what he chose to admit – it was clear that the notion of her being at peace was as great a comfort to him as it was to me, and to have our own tangible reminders of that truly was the key to allowing her to rest. We only needed that last push in the right direction.

Time continued on, unhindered by anything we could have possibly done or thought, flowing with the natural progression of the world and sending us through its journey as if we had not so recently buried our only daughter. That, perhaps, was yet another unexpected factor that would bring about the most peace of mind over the following months. As with my parents, although I would feel so wretchedly lost at having to be obliged to live my life as an orphan, the time which separated my existence from their parting would eventually come to coax me back into the land of the living. I would always grieve for my daughter, as I would for my beloved parents, but I had to take from the experience of losing them that saying goodbye to Estelle would someday not leave me feeling quite as broken and empty as at the beginning. Her loss would always be a part of us – an event that was sure to define us profoundly – but there was no denying that with time we had somehow found the strength to carry on without her at last, calmed by holding tightly to our love for her and the significance of our too-short time together. It was slowly, always slowly and with a deep and aching regret at its necessity, but acceptance _did_ come; with it, the cries I heard in my dreams were but echoes of a darker time, certainly painful memories but no longer holding the power to destroy me.

Our wedding anniversary had come and gone, an occasion that we observed with the appropriate reverence, albeit accompanied by the most bittersweet of sentiments. We reflected upon how much had happened to us during that first year of marriage, of how much had changed that we could scarcely comprehend even after living through all of it together. But in the end, we were still able to find the gratitude within ourselves that, throughout the entirety of our relationship even long before our union, we had each other. We could never forget that against all odds, we had always found a way back to one another – even when such an outcome wasn't immediately apparent. For so many instances and for far too long had we allowed ourselves to become so hopelessly lost within ourselves that our resulting clarity of mind and heart truly was something marvelous; it meant more to us than we could properly express, yet it was steadfastly and wordlessly understood. And that knowledge alone brought about the comfort we needed to celebrate in the wake of tragedy.

Over time I began to grow stronger – both of mind and body – and far more confident in myself than I had been in months. I continued attending church, continued visiting with Vera and corresponding with the Girys, and with a newfound stubbornness I compelled myself to rejoin my own life with the knowledge that I simply _had_ to. Although I still felt the missing parts of myself deeply, I didn't want to move backwards; doing so would accomplish nothing more than bringing about more pain – the preceding months had taught me that much. I drew strength from Erik when I needed it, until the time came when I grew more able to find it within myself once more. As summertime approached, at last had my resolve strengthened as well.

There _were_ times, however, when that faltered. It was to be expected under the circumstances, of course, but even so such weaker moments proved to be jarring to my already fragile state of self-assurance. I would wake with the assumption that I could progress further that day, sometimes aiming for an activity as simple as ambling my way through the city or attending a luncheon with friends; but more often than not I intended to make my way into the nursery to make sense of what remained within its walls. I had been under the misguided assumption that I needed to do so as soon as possible for the sake of my health, and so it was my hope to be able to accomplish such a daunting and regrettable task. But that desire always proved to be my biggest downfall; even though each attempt brought me further into that space than the last, I always found that I could do no more than to stand before the silence numbly, frozen in place by memories and biting emotions still far too real and recent to be simply cast aside. The room itself seemed entirely separated from the rest of the world, my own private Hell that I could not stand to face as faceless terrors seemed to paralyze me. And being defeated in the end, I always had to run from that deafening and glaring emptiness.

On one such occasion, I collided with Erik in my attempt at a hasty escape, startling myself badly despite already knowing that he had still been upstairs readying himself for the day.

"Are you alright?" he asked in alarm as he took ahold of my shoulders to steady me; I hadn't realized until he held onto me that I had been trembling.

I nodded, "Yes, I'm fine. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"You didn't," he responded slowly as he eyed me with concern, "Why were you in there?"

"I'm not so sure anymore," I sighed, deciding that there was no point in hiding the truth from him, "I had wanted to sort through some things, perhaps. That's what I had thought, at least," I shook my head, unable to find the words I needed, "I don't know. But now I don't think I can."

"No one said you have to."

"Shouldn't I, though?" I asked helplessly, "At some point it needs to be done."

"Everything in its time, Christine," he said firmly, "You've told me that more than once."

"Except that I don't know _when_ that time will be."

"You will."

I sighed, "Will I? Maybe not. I fear that I'm becoming too afraid to go in there."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid of what will become of it," I admitted after pausing to consider an unspoken notion that had been plaguing me for quite some time, "Everything in there was meant to belong to Estelle, yet now it stands alone and unused, and it all frightens me so badly. What am I to do with that? What am I to do with such knowledge?"

"I don't know," he admitted sadly.

"Nor do I. But it's all we have left of her, that room and everything within it. If it's no longer a nursery, what then? I'm afraid that I'll either never be able to let her go, or that I'll forget her entirely."

He considered his words silently for a time before speaking, "You have to let her rest, for your sake as much as hers," he said softly, "It doesn't mean you're forgetting her. You never will."

I sighed and nodded, knowing as soon as his words met the air that he was right – that was simply yet another reality that I would have to come to face. And as with everything else involved in our family's private tragedy, I had to let that truth come to me, to learn how to take it into my heart without allowing myself to suffer in the process. I couldn't force anything that I wasn't entirely ready to handle, and I had to accept that even in my sincerity there would surely be setbacks.

I took a quick glance back at the nursery door, and without a second thought pulled it shut softly before I had a chance to dwell upon what I was doing.

"Everything in its time," I repeated softly, "This can wait."

Erik smiled at me, the sadness in his eyes meeting the adoration he extended to me. I took his hand in my own as we once again led one another away from that stark reminder of our shared pain. The nursery itself would prove to remain untouched for quite some, but after that day I did not allow myself to obsess over things I was clearly not yet ready to overcome. In being able to do so, the time did eventually arrive that I could enter that room with a clear mind, albeit mingled with the all too familiar pangs of regret and sadness, but taking it all in stride nonetheless.

~~oOo~~

Summertime came as if in the blink of an eye that year, bringing in its wake a harsh onslaught of sunlight each day which obliged us to take frequent walks in the evening if only to ward off the stifling air that no amount of open windows could quell. But the weather of the season and our subsequent outings in search of relief were not entirely unpleasant, in the end. Such evenings gave Erik and I ample opportunity to settle ourselves that much more – to _find_ ourselves in the comfort and familiarity of each other's company – as well as to get reacquainted with the city in which so much had occurred for the both of us. As the summer progressed, I found that I greatly looked forward to those wonderful moments just before sunset – the world around us seemed to slow, as if time itself had been subdued by the relentless force of the sunlight. It almost seemed magical, that strange way that the golden sunsets brought an ethereal quality to the air, and we were compelled to immerse ourselves in that glow just before each twilight promenade if only to relive kinder and simpler times. We would set off in any given direction and simply be together; it had proven to be quite beneficial for us both, and by the time the summer began to bleed once more into those first hints of chilled autumn days, it seemed to me that yet another aspect of our hard fought for peace was granted.

As our lives began to reemerge back into calmer and more familiar patterns, we in turn were able to return to more of the things we once enjoyed – at least for the most part. I knew, even just barely consciously so, that I longed for some pieces of myself that seemed too far away from my soul; but in time I found that I was able to once again engage in the former routine with which we had once established the flow of our lives, and that knowledge was enough to help me remember to carry on.

With some coaxing Erik had eventually returned to his piano, immediately being able to fall back in step with his long-practiced abilities. Before that time, his sole focus had been on the papers and designs strewn about his drafting table, and absolutely nothing else. On those pages his work represented all of his skills, yet none of his passion; the tasks were simply done as a means of ensuring an income, of _any_ possible distraction offered from his pain, but it had been evident in the preceding months that his heart was not in it as surely as it had once been. In time, however, with the gradual return of our relative sense of normalcy also came his renewed surge of creativity, instilling within him once more the drive to create beauty as if from thin air. Doing so had always been imperative for him, a way to reconcile in even the smallest of ways with all of the injustices and ugliness he had faced from a cold world. Losing himself in his work had always pulled him from his darker moments, even if doing so took time; it was clear that he needed that part of himself to survive, to draw him away from his worst memories and back into the present where he could find his own peace. And so, knowing of that innate drive and capability – by harnessing it and feeling that pull back into the music that had for so long bonded us both – he returned both to the piano as well as his hastily abandoned compositions. To him, it was like coming home.

I, on the other hand, was not quite so able to resume the practice of my music as readily as Erik had, although it was clear that I desperately needed to.

While I was surely more confident – even happy most of the time – and while I had brought myself back into nearly every aspect of my life, I was dismayed to realize that the notes that I was once able to sing with passion and aplomb could no longer escape my heart. Indeed, a part of me was missing, as starkly apparent as being without Estelle, and I knew without having to give a voice to that notion that the underlying reason was that losing my daughter had taken a piece of me far and away. I certainly wasn't surprised – my reaction had been so similar when my father died that it stood to reason that in my grief I was simply no longer capable of letting my heart speak for me. I knew immediately why that part of me seemed so terribly distant. Losing my connection to the music that in so many ways had influenced my own family felt as if I were living apart from the rest of the world, a ghost lost and alone in a realm that I could not understand. I was entirely unsure of how to bring myself back, yet I longed for it nonetheless – I longed for my musical spirit to thrust me once and for all back into a more meaningful existence, a way of living that would honor those that I loved so yet lost far too soon. Without that meaning, I was sure that I was no longer truly myself.

Upon becoming aware of such understandings, I relayed many of these reflections to Erik as clearly as I was able. He understood, to a certain extent – had treaded the waters of similar emotions and uncertainty in his own time – but to my dismay he could not simply tell me how to find my way back to myself. It seemed that only time could heal those wounds, and I quickly grew resentful at just how fickle _time_ seemed to be. Just as I was sure I had made great progress, it appeared that whether it leapt forward mercilessly or slowed terribly only in moments of true anguish, time itself had given me far more questions and doubts than answers in the end.

But still, Erik would often invite me to join him at the piano, gently reminding me on each occasion that I was not alone; but at my obvious hesitance and constant refusal to engage in even the simplest of warm-up exercises, he did not push the matter, insisting all the more instead that it would all return to me if just I held on. Even so, I was greatly disappointed with myself. Erik had long ago been able to bring me back into the light under the guise of an ethereal being, and even though it had been terribly impractical upon reflection, I found that I sorely missed his unconventional methods of extending sympathy and knowledge. I had learned to be grateful for his well-meaning deceit with time, to see its benefit, but we were no longer in a position to pretend. I simply had to be patient.

I often thought back to those times long since passed – a world in which our youth and naivety had not yet turned to betray us. All I had to do then was listen and learn, to be willing to accept a vast existence far beyond the scope of my understanding. I missed that relative simplicity terribly.

I could remember so clearly the days as I approached the cusp of womanhood just before it all went wrong – the peaceful days before the disaster, before Raoul's reemergence into my life which threw our hearts into turmoil beyond comprehension. In the stillness of the evenings I could still hear Erik's voice so clearly in my mind, welcoming me into his confidence like a lover's embrace. So stern and commanding, yet even so I could always detect every slight nuance that told me he was proud – I could sense his love even before I came to truly understand it. It was during that time that my voice had reached heights that I never thought possible; I had begun to know myself and who I wanted to become, to feel alive once more for the first time since my father had died, and a part of me so hoped that such feelings meant that my broken heart could truly mend after so many years of wandering through my grief. Such peace did indeed come to me, a hard fought battle that ended with the assurance of new understanding. It was only just before coming to London that I became cognizant of those facts, and it struck me as terribly tragic that such assurances proved to be short-lived.

Losing Estelle had stranded me once again within a world full of music and beauty of which I was unable to partake; I felt as if I were cursed to forever stand aside, waiting in the wings with no hope of allowing my voice to take me away from the pain of mourning. And this time, Erik no longer had the power to let fantasy take hold and spirit me away into the limelight. Once again I found that I didn't know how to move on from there, and so the music simply stayed hidden somewhere deep in my heart. I longed for it sorely, but decided that I could be content standing beside Erik when he played. In time, I hoped, I could join him once again.

We had long since gone to bed as I let these memories race through my mind once more, yet it seemed clear that neither of us would be falling asleep any time soon.

Erik joined me that night purely for my benefit, sensing my unease before I myself was even cognizant of it; but he was no closer to even just a fitful doze than I was for the moment. I was terribly restless at being lost in the cascading visions in my mind's eye. Thinking of those far away days when our love was only the faintest whisper made me long for my husband in ways that I hadn't considered in quite some time – I wanted so badly to feel whole. I began to wonder – as if for the first time – if losing my connection to our music had distanced us as badly as our shared grief had at the beginning. The very idea made me shudder beside him; I didn't want us to have come so far together only to be torn apart by circumstances beyond our control. I could live my life without ever singing another note, but I didn't want to live that life if it meant having even the slightest disconnection. Doubt began to nag at my heart, and even as I attempted to quell the disquietude by dismissing it as absurd fitfulness, I worried myself into quite a state nonetheless.

Erik turned to face me when my distress was clear; I could just barely see him in the pale moonlight that filtered in through the open window – one of the last times we would be afforded the luxury as the autumn progressed, I was sure – but I could see the concern in his eyes plainly.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, reaching out to sweep a stay curl from my eyes.

I sighed and steeled myself, "Erik, do you love me?" I asked uneasily, but knowing all the while that allowing my fears to remain unspoken would do us harm in time.

"What?" he asked, obviously taken aback, "Of course I do, you know that."

"Could you still love me…even if I was never able to sing again?"

"Christine, what do you think my answer is?"

"I…I'm not sure" I trailed off, wondering if I was making any sense to him at all, "I think that music is very important to us both. It's what drew you to me at the beginning, isn't it? You heard my voice and – "

"– And I wanted to know the person that possessed that voice," he said evenly, sitting up straight and pulling me up with him, "Christine, I loved you for your voice at the start, but I fell in love with you. _All of you._ So you have no reason to fear that anything has changed. It doesn't matter what happens to us, my heart belongs to you. Why think otherwise?"

I shook my head, "I'm not sure when, or even _if_ I'll ever be ready to sing again. I don't think I know how anymore, I don't know how to open that part of myself. Yet I wish I could…Do you think that will ever happen again?"

"I don't know. I don't think that's for either of us to say. Just be patient, dear," he reminded me quietly, "And if you never sing another note, I will still love you more than I could ever say," he paused, "I wish you would have told me this sooner."

"I've been thinking a lot lately, trying to make sense of it all. This is simply another collection of thoughts that I don't think I was ready to face."

"I'm sorry, darling," he said as he pulled me into his arms, encircling me in the comfort of familiarity, "Don't let this frighten you, don't allow yourself to doubt this love, alright?"

I nodded and returned his embrace gratefully.

We said no more beyond that significant exchange – instead we lie together in the darkness, accompanied only by the sound of our breath falling into rhythm with each other and the rustling of the curtains in the breeze. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine that we had never known tragedy; I could allow myself at least the briefest of moments to pretend that we had stepped back in time, to our first days within our home when Erik sought comfort in my embrace when his own mind betrayed him as badly as mine had for so long since that awful February day. Before that we had been happy – even though we had settled of late, we would always harbor even the faintest of grief at Estelle's memory. Her loss would be forever written in our hearts. Lying in Erik's arms that quiet autumn night, after all that we had been through, I wanted nothing more than to stay in that peaceful denial.

I wanted my life back – I wanted him back.

I hadn't realized it, not truly, until that moment. But it was a certainty in my mind that I wanted nothing more than to simply be with my husband, to grant us the carefree moments of intimacy that we had so long forgotten. I shifted in his arms, meaning to face him squarely as I made up my mind.

"Are you alright?" he asked in alarm at my abrupt movement.

"I miss you," I said, barely speaking above a whisper.

His brow furrowed as it seemed he intended to ask me of my meaning, but I didn't give him the chance to speak. In one swift and determined motion I captured his lips with my own, thinking fleetingly that my actions so mirrored his the night we made love for the first time. In that house hidden away from all the world, when we were so lost between frenzied emotions of devastation and adoration, he had extended to me the gift of his name – a piece of himself so jealously guarded as a measure to protect himself from a cruel and unforgiving world. I knew then how much bravery he had to summon to speak those words, to bring himself forward to kiss me and set in motion a night that would change us forever. As I deepened the kiss that I initiated in the stillness of the night which surrounded our London home, I drew from his strength of that singular moment in the house on the outskirts of Paris. Suddenly, as he returned the kiss with as much fervor as I gave, I could think of nothing else beyond that moment. Nothing else could possibly matter so long as he kept his arms around me.

It wasn't long before our mutual desire became undeniable; he shifted so that he was on top of me, careful to brace himself to ensure my own comfort, but even so I pulled him as close to me as possible, relishing in the sensations that were clearly overtaking us both. We parted only for an instant, our eyes alight with a reawakening passion, and in that moment I knew that I didn't want the night to simply end there. I needed to feel his skin close to mine, to feel our bodies as close as possible, him inside of me as we became whole once again. Doing so meant so much more to us both than the physical. He needed that as much as I did, it was quite clear – he needed to feel that connection to another human, the love that only he and I shared. But he wouldn't ask for it before that night, he wouldn't take the steps for fear that doing so would cause me pain. Before then I likely would have agreed with that notion. But that night, I wanted it all back.

I ran my hand down his chest before allowing it to come to rest against his arousal, and in doing so I achieved the desired effect; he shut his eyes tightly, inhaling sharply before moving his hands over my body in return – any shyness which might have remained was certainly done away with once and for all as he finally made his way back to face me, staring at me intently before allowing himself to continue on. Clothing swiftly removed and discarded, I could feel the fire relit between us as we quickly grew bolder and lost in one another's touches. We were once again engaged in the tentative yet impassioned acts that would surely culminate in our bodies coming together – we only needed to make that final move, once so simple and yet now so pivotal.

I held him to me as if he were the only anchor keeping me in the world.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, meeting my eyes in the moonlight.

I nodded, "Please. I need you."

He didn't hesitate to continue after that, resumed kissing me without missing a step. Every gesture on his part was so slow, so tender even as our minds seemed to race in step with one another; I could feel his love for me, unwavering and unconditional, and my heart pounded with the knowledge that our spirits had truly never been separated in the dark. He moved closer to me at last, our bodies meeting in that familiar intimacy so long denied by hearts too broken. I could feel his desire as strongly as my own – we only needed to make the decision to continue on and realize that doing so was right.

That night there was no more need for words between us.


	25. I Will Tremble a Prayer

**Author's Note:** _I'll keep this short and sweet considering the awful wait I've put y'all through yet again. Good news! You get a two-fer this time! Simply because this and the following chapter are a bridge of the story, of sorts, and because originally we were looking at over 10,000 words (!), it made a helluva lot more sense to break things down into more bite-sized pieces. So there will be a lot of reading, but far more manageable in the end. Once again I ask that y'all review and let me know how everything is going. I want to make sure that everything is flowing properly and comfortably and that all in all everything is being portrayed realistically, especially for the process of our poor childless couple. As they say, the first year is always the hardest. But that will make more sense later...Anywhoodles, here it is in all its glory. Keep on reviewing and let me know what y'all think. I'd love to hear if anyone has any predictions, especially after y'all read Chapter 26. ;) Finally, the title for this chapter as well as for Chapter 26 comes from the song "Silver and Cold" by AFI. It's always been one of my favorite of their's, and I think the lyrics really capture what I believe is some of what the characters are going through right now, especially Erik. Okay, enough of my ramblings. Read, review, and most of all enjoy!_

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Chapter 25 – I Will Tremble a Prayer

Christine

Life went on and time marched forth, heedless of all else beyond unhindered forward progression. It was suddenly a strange phenomenon to me – once I truly became cognizant of even its mere existence, seemingly as if for the first time in my life – to be so aware of the absolute and unwavering hold it had on us all. But all the same, time continued moving forward as it always had, although lately it passed by in a markedly far more pleasant manner and even more peacefully so than in darker months passed. I carried on with the daily comings and goings of my life alongside Erik in his own endeavors, and we were simply happy to have a presence in one another's lives.

I wrote to Madame Giry and Meg often and looked forward to the good news they always tried to share – Meg having recently informed me that she had found herself a new beau, one that even Madame had no qualms against despite her usual fierce protectiveness over us. I returned Meg's excitement in the letter containing my reply, noting to her that my courtship and marriage to Erik had likely ensured that anyone Meg brought home would appear _far_ tamer by comparison. I had to laugh in spite of myself at that reflection of my courtship with Erik, remembering everything that we had gone through with a sort of mingled fond sadness and knowing that there was once a time when our relationship seemed impossible at best. And yet in the end we had come together, and I assured Meg that if she had indeed found love with this man, then she would be all the better for it.

Some weeks later, it came as no surprise to me that Meg had sent a reply accompanied by the announcement of her engagement. I felt sincere pride for her upon reading those significant words; it was a welcomed occurrence to witness my dearest friend experiencing something as exciting and relatively normal as planning her wedding as quickly as her mother would allow.

I was dismayed, however, to not have heard from Raoul for quite some time – having long ago opted not to share with him the news of our loss. It seemed too personal – almost disrespectful – to share with one's former fiancé, and so I requested that Madame Giry and Meg not make mention of it either for fear of further questioning on Raoul's part. In turn, the last I had heard of him was of his own impending engagement, followed by complete silence. There was not even any secondhand information relayed by the Girys other than the assurance that he was safe. I assumed that his relationship meant no longer having contact with his former soprano love and childhood sweetheart, and I accepted that fact in good graces. It was sad to acknowledge that I had to let go, but I was comforted by the many wonderful memories we shared; I could be resolved to accept his silence if doing so meant ensuring his easier transition into the obligations and duties of his title.

Still, in spite of the abrupt distancing of a long friendship, in all other aspects of my life I felt more alive than I had in a long time. It seemed that even with every great stride forward and each valiant attempt to face every new day, I hadn't quite been aware of just how long my sorrow ran through the course of time, how much it had dampened my spirits even when I all but thought I was growing numb to its power. But when I opened my eyes each morning to our sunlit bedroom, looking over to see Erik stirring along with me on such occasions when he had chosen to remain with me late into the morning, I felt my spirit reawaken time and time again – until finally that reawakening turned into the true renewed bravery for which I had been grasping for so long.

Several weeks had passed since the night that we had finally been reintroduced to one another's bodies, and if it was possible I believe I fell far more deeply in love with my husband. To be able to find comfort and release in one another's embrace meant much more to us than simply sharing in physical intimacy – we were the keepers of each other's hearts, our making love was but a testament to how much that meant to us. In spite of everything we had endured, we could still rise the next morning and know that we had somehow once again survived together. I don't believe that I would have made it through Estelle's passing had he not been by my side.

It was in becoming ever more cognizant of those facts that I ultimately made my decision.

"I want to sing," I told him quickly – abruptly even – one morning when we were otherwise content to find relaxation in the relative peace of our bed.

He obliged my request without question, swiftly pulling on only his trousers and scarcely giving me time to find a robe for modesty as he led me downstairs and to his piano.

We resumed the roles of teacher and student immediately, almost unconsciously – as if so many years and harsh experiences had not separated us from those respective titles. He sat before his piano in his long-ago acquired confident manner, playing a short melody to warm himself up for more vigorous accompanying notes to meet the air by his skilled hands. I scanned the shelves containing our collection of music quickly as I decided upon just the right piece, distantly recalling how much more we had gathered since settling into London with a touch of pride at that seemingly inconsequential accomplishment. I would have no trouble finding something suitable to sing among the vast and varied array of scores, and indeed I was able to make short work of my efforts. I placed the sheet music before him and almost immediately began singing on my own, so excited by the thought of returning to my music at last that I scarcely gave him time to play the introduction of the piece.

"Don't you dare," he said in mock-warning, although it was clear to me that he was taking his position as maestro as seriously as ever, "Warm up your voice first."

I did as I was told, if not rather impatiently so – I didn't want to delay singing the aria itself for too long and lose my nerve. But I understood the necessity of proceeding methodically; if I ever wanted to sing again – if I wanted to _continue_ doing so after that morning – I would have to be mindful of not acting too hastily and damaging my instrument before even giving it the change to reenter the world with any modicum of dignity.

When I was finally allowed to launch into the piece, however, it was as if I had never stopped singing. The music returned to me with a passion, almost staggeringly so – the notes met the air steadily, _powerfully_ , even in the higher register; I was dimly aware of not only my own pride at that significant feat, but of Erik's own unmasked pride as he continued playing beside me. As an instructor, he was never one to give compliments freely, opting instead to criticize for the sake of education and improvement with an almost forced patience and let my hard work speak for itself. But on the seldom occasions that he would choose to speak in my favor, it was with a sincerity so clear that I would never dare doubt its presence. And in those moments when the final notes rang out, so had his sincerest gazes of prideful affection returned. I looked upon him expectantly when the song came to a close, a feeling of mingled self-consciousness and stubborn accomplishment overtaking my senses.

To anyone else, the scene might have appeared rather humorous, even to the point of absurdity; a married couple still in their nightclothes engaging in an impromptu music lesson while one looked upon the other as if her entire life depended upon his reaction was certainly out of the ordinary, to say the least. But to us, it meant far more than what outward appearances would suggest; it meant a substantial changing of the tides, a complete return to the very essence of ourselves. What silently passed between us initially was nearly indescribable – it was home. It was as if a spell had suddenly been broken – one I hadn't even realized had been cast until I felt its invisible weight lift from my heart. And finally, it seemed that the last of the darkness within me had been banished. I felt like myself again, my heart and soul wholly and utterly pieced back together. I felt freedom, spurred on by my utter and complete success, and I saw that love and pride in Erik's eyes that I had longed for even in those long ago days at the opera house. It was thrilling, to say the least.

"Beautiful," he said softly as he held out his hand to me and held mine tightly, "Welcome back."

I felt lighter than air.

And I laughed.

~~oOo~~

Erik

In my mind's eye, I replayed the moment that Christine found her voice again countless times in the weeks that followed that significant morning. Even after too long spent in brokenhearted disuse, her voice was as pristine as I had remembered it; I was relieved beyond words that she hadn't needed to endure _that_ loss amidst everything else she had suffered. I knew how greatly her inability to continue in her musical studies had troubled her, and I'm not so sure that she could have taken yet another blow against her fragile spirit. My heart soared as hers clearly had when those first tentative notes met the air in trembling intensity – growing still stronger with each measure – until finally it seemed that she had found her way again. Finishing the piece confidently and successfully only seemed to complete the perfection of the scene.

It was clearest then just how far we had fallen, how even despite many great strides forward we were still struggling in even the smallest of ways to bring together the broken pieces of ourselves. I had allowed my music to return to me with time – albeit hesitantly – but it was a hollow victory without Christine by my side in that long-practiced endeavor. As badly as I wanted to, I couldn't pull her back with me – that was a feat she had to accomplish in her own time, and I knew all too well how easily her resolve could be undone with too much force from either of our sides. When she found it within herself to unleash her voice from its mournful prison, a part of me breathed once again with renewed life. It seemed more realistic than ever, in those first moments, that the suffering we had endured could truly be conquered – always a part of us but no longer able to destroy us in one fell swoop. It was well worth the wait to come to that realization together, to find that understanding through our shared passion for the music that had bound us together from the moment of our first encounter.

From that point on she settled down with me once more, and we used the experience as further proof for encouragement that we _could_ continue moving forward with our lives. I knew what it meant to be at peace, and I was absolutely determined to extend that renewal of calm to her heart as much as my own.

I dared not question such resolute contentment; long ago had I vowed to offer my strength to Christine after losing Estelle. I refused to allow myself to overthink my good fortune that such stillness of my formerly frantic heart had actually lasted. I found my own form of serenity in the familiar, venturing away from my home only when necessary and settling myself in rather nicely within the confines of the house that I had grudgingly accepted as a good fit for us both, even if in the beginning I was wholly unable to reign in such an onslaught of doubt that I was nearly paralyzed by my fears. The idea of home was an entirely foreign concept to me until our marriage, and even for quite some time afterward. But when I allowed that notion to settle within my consciousness, I found my strength. We had persevered through a great deal of unpleasant circumstances in a relatively short amount of time, but when the dust settled I could honestly find myself grateful for my position in life. That alone was its own surprise; in my youth, I had never expected anything but torment defining my existence, but I welcomed that new knowledge nonetheless. I used it as another aspect of my incentive to carry on.

We were content, and in being so our marriage survived yet again with all odds stacked against us. I was sure that, had we allowed ourselves to remain lost beyond what I could look back upon and see as our breaking point, we would only have become distant and miserable. That was not an option, as far as I was concerned. I refused to take what we had built for granted, certainly not after fighting to win our freedom and our shared clarity of heart. Our contentment was a blessing – I wasn't so blind as to be unable to see that much. And so, in living with one another – in bearing that in mind and finding that _home_ in each other – we were content.

The routine that we had reestablished continued on much the same as it had even before Estelle was born; we were happy, perhaps even considerably _normal_ , and in being perfectly honest with ourselves, it was in mutual agreement that we realized that such normalcy was a welcomed phenomenon even as it was still somewhat of a foreign concept to me. Tragedy notwithstanding, we were simply husband and wife living our shared lives in relative bliss. While we both experienced the occasional bout of melancholy, as such it was not nearly as intense as the months passed unhindered as ever, and beyond that we had no reason to dwell in the darkness of the past. It made more sense to honor Estelle's too-short life by living as we were meant to – together and as unafraid as humanly possible. We had fought for far too long to go forth in any other manner.

~~oOo~~

When I work, I am nearly impossible to reach by anyone or anything in the world outside of the immediate scope of my imagination. I have always been that way, for better or worse, and I assumed that even a year and a half of marriage couldn't change that. But it was clear, on more than one occasion, that Christine alone had a knack for pulling me back into reality. While I could certainly have held a grudge against her for disrupting the flow of creativity that had sustained me for so long, it seemed that I simply couldn't deny her my full attention – and moreover, it was apparent even in my stubbornness to keep working that I didn't _want_ to deny her. I certainly had no reason to complain about her methods, at any rate. Anyone else would likely have received the rather more intense manifestation of my wrath, yet all I could see fit to give Christine for her efforts was to give in and grant her my full awareness. She was simply too appealing and endearing to do otherwise.

One such occasion stands out in my memory as being particularly effective on her part.

I knew that the setting sun was accountable for the golden glow enveloping my study, but beyond that distant understanding I was only dimly aware of the world around me as I worked. I wouldn't quite bring myself to say that I was _struggling_ with my latest drafting assignment, but I was becoming increasingly more aware of each sigh of frustration as a particular aspect of the building's design didn't come out just right on paper – certainly not as I had envisioned it in my mind. But I pressed on stubbornly, absolutely refusing to be bested by any creative hurtle. I had been through far worse lapses in productivity through the years, and allowing myself to become too engrossed within the utter annoyance of a lack of output would only lead to a complete stalling of my work. But even so, I would sketch awhile, ball up and discard the paper in a fit of frustration, and start over – sometimes getting no further than a rough outline of whatever damnable façade I was trying to bring to life to begin with.

I had been working at that capacity for hours, cycling through each step and coming up short at every new attempt. The only sounds around me were the clock ticking steadily on the bookshelf behind me, my pen flying across the paper in an effort to keep up with frenzied thoughts coming to fruition, and the occasional profanity passing my lips that would have Christine sighing in amused disappointment should she be unfortunate enough to pass the doorway at that inopportune moment. She had witnessed me moving from the drafting table to the lower desk in a futile effort to jog my imagination, but otherwise chose to leave me to my thoughts as late-afternoon descended.

When nighttime arrived, however, it seemed that she had finally had enough.

"I don't know _what_ gave you the idea that your language is acceptable," she said, ultimately deciding to enter the room to confront me, "But I assure you, my darling, that it _is_ rather unbecoming of a gentleman."

"Don't be cruel," I responded absently, my eyes never leaving the desktop before me.

"I'm only being truthful."

"It would seem to me that you're painfully unfamiliar with the creative process, then."

She scoffed, "Hardly. But I can manage myself in a far more dignified manner."

I could no longer keep my gaze away from her in my determination to feign insult, opting instead to laugh openly as I replied, "Have you only come in here to criticize me? Because I could get more work done in silence, if you please."

Then was her turn to play the victim, "Are you saying that I'm unwanted here?"

"Never," I replied quickly. Abandoning my work for the moment, I pulled her closer to me, catching her off guard and helping with steadying her before she could stumble too far.

Righting herself with a charming laugh of her own, she leaned against the desk, smiling thoughtfully, "You really ought to take a break, Erik."

"I will," I said distantly once more, eyes flicking back to the paper beside her hand and regarding the sketches upon its surface as if they were a far greater problem than they truly were.

"Of course you will," she said teasingly, "Come midnight, I'm sure you'll leave this room. Or perhaps staying through the night until tomorrow would befit your so-called creative process."

"I'm not so sure I approve of your tone," I said in mock-warning, retrieving my pen and marking the paper absentmindedly, distracted by a sudden idea that I couldn't quite translate onto the page.

"Give yourself a break, love," she sighed, "You don't have anything due for presentation any time soon."

"I'd rather not put this off and have to rush to meet a deadline."

She was quiet for a moment after my reasoning as I continued drawing, the room falling into relative and comfortable silence once again. She remained in place, watching me as I worked; I rather enjoyed her company, yet all the while I was distantly thinking that her presence proved to be accompanied by its own set of distractions. I assumed she wasn't aware of that fact – not until she began to trace her fingers over the paper. It was an innocent enough gesture until her hand strayed to mine, effectively knocking the pen aside mid-stroke.

I looked upon her with narrowed eyes, and she had the audacity to smile back at me.

"Now you're just tampering with our livelihood, do you know that?" I asked, lifting the pen away from further assault on her part.

She shrugged, "If you're that worried about it, I can always just leave."

"Don't assume again that I don't want your company. I only want to get some work done."

"Really, Erik," she started haughtily, "I can think of far better ways to pass the time. I think you need a break."

"And I don't think I do," I countered.

"Well _I'm_ sure of it."

Knowing that I couldn't win, I tossed the pen aside dramatically and met her challenge with one of my own, "Alright, Christine. Prove me wrong."

I never did get any more work completed that night.

She gave a high-pitched laugh when I pulled her toward me and into an awkward embrace as she stood somewhat hunched to meet my height while I remained seated. The air around us changed almost instantly, going in one moment from lighthearted and playful to distinctly amorous the next. She straddled me, and while her movement was not unwanted, I hadn't quite been expecting her to move to meet my form so quickly – certainly not in the position in which we currently found ourselves. I swiveled the chair around so that my back was against the desk, winding my arms securely around her waist to support her.

It was soon very clear that her losing her balance was of no great concern; she leaned into me as closely as possible as we settled into one another's embrace, wrapping one arm around my neck as her other hand entwined itself in my hair. I didn't hesitate to pull her lips down to meet my own, kissing her with little pretense of gentleness. This was her game of distraction, and I saw no true reason for preamble just then. Words passed between us could wait until later; I wanted to show her my passion in that moment, that my desire for her truly was the only thought in my mind, and she responded immediately with as much fervor. Though even among familiar movements, I absently realized that something _was_ markedly different about this singular encounter. Where in the time before that day and after nearly being swallowed by grief, we had each conveyed our love for one another through gentle and somewhat restrained touch, whether intimately or otherwise. Intimacy had become comfortable and familiar, but admittedly had lacked the passion that we once knew, and it was clear to me that such reservations were born of our tentative hold on our emotions; this time any hesitance or reservation was cast aside in favor of simple and undaunted togetherness. That day had proven to be its own unexpected turning point, one that I'm not sure either of us realized had been needed.

The simple act of joining lips was soon not enough for either of us – it wasn't long before wandering hands grasped at shirt buttons, corset strings, any possible article of clothing that had fast become mere impedances to our touch. In little time each of us was divested of nearly all the fabric on our bodies, yet we otherwise remained in place, Christine balanced precariously on my lap as I held fast to her flushed body. We slowed our movements then, meaning to concentrate on the immediate moments of desperate need. It was then that her hands began to wander once more, encouraged by our mutual sense of urgency and desire. They strayed all over my body, touching my chest, my arms, synchronized movements driven onward both by experience and pure instinct as my own hands grasped and held tightly. She had ignited a fire within me that made it nearly impossible to concentrate.

My body responded to her touch instantaneously, and I made no effort to hide my arousal – there was no reason to. She, in turn, allowed the disruption of the otherwise matched movements of her hands – one winding its way back around my shoulders, the other venturing lower to rest between my legs and finally taking ahold tight enough to elicit a gasp from me that quickly dissolved into an almost pained moan. I wanted more.

I was shocked, to say the least, when her hand ceased its previously firm and steady motion. But before I had the chance to protest – before I bothered to take the time to even consider if it was rude to do so – she repositioned herself quickly, opening my trousers all at once. When she lowered herself onto me, I immediately captured her lips with my own once again. Whether it was a gesture of gratitude or simply another act of shared intimacy, I could not determine. The only thoughts that seemed capable of penetrating the haze of desire within my mind were the obvious sensations of her tauntingly slow and rhythmic movements as she closed in around me, the purely carnal nature of it all. We still did not speak – we were content instead to let our bodies communicate everything we needed for us, engaging in a dance that was both enthralling and impassioned, steady yet frantic and entirely new.

I could only think that her position over me was deeply erotic, and it left me weak as the moments ticked by with her movements. I knew I would meet my release all too soon, and I didn't want our unexpected evening encounter to end there when I had scarcely been given the opportunity to return her favor. I pulled away from her slightly, met by her hesitant confusion, only to reposition us so that I could safely lead her away from the desk and to the nearby divan. Silent and smiling, we settled into the new location with little difficulty, quickly resuming deeply intimate actions. I moved to hover over her, mindful to position myself to ensure her comfort, but even so she pulled me down atop her with an urgency that didn't surprise me – not by that point. All clothing was long forgotten by then, and I reveled in the feeling of her skin against mine, of how soft and warm she was beneath me.

She never failed to strike me as beautiful, both of body and of heart, and looking down upon her then I was reminded almost forcefully of how much I loved her. She touched me without fear, without anger and blind resentment – she touched me in spite of the repeatedly broken body that I presented to her. I felt her run gentle caresses over my skin, too pale against impossibly lighter scars, barely raised now and yet entirely unable to disappear completely with time. Before her were the countless testaments of too many whips and blades against an outnumbered child, yet even so she did not look at me with pity. Rather, I saw the love in her eyes that I had long ago grown to accept as sincere. She reached up and removed the mask last, always careful yet determined in doing so, as if she were mindful of wanting to constantly reminding me that she still loved me – that she always had – and her doing so never failed to strike me as miraculous.

I leaned forward to kiss her, far more gently this time, a silent and sincere gesture of gratitude. There were times, lying in her arms, that I could truly forget what I was and who I had been.

We parted slowly, hesitant to break the connection, but I had the overwhelming urge to look at her as she had done so many times for me. For a moment, I nearly stopped short – almost confused – as if I was seeing her again for the first time. Perhaps I truly was, for I saw before me the woman that was my wife as if I were only a silent observer, a stranger falling in love for the first time; I saw the woman that she had become in our years together. My eyes trailed over her breasts, her stomach and her hips, but in those moments I looked upon her without lust. Rather, I realized startlingly just how much she had changed from the first time we had come together, what carrying our child had done to her form. Subtle changes in her curves, the faint marks upon her skin – although fewer in amount, they reminded me sadly of the scars upon my own flesh. Our bodies bore the scars of the abundant cruelties of the past – cruelties both manmade and God-given, seemingly unbidden and certainly unjust. Hers were perhaps not as plentiful, certainly born of vastly different experiences, but they ran as viciously deeply to her very soul as my own. Yet even so, she had endured, and with far more grace and dignity than I think she knew she was capable of bringing forth. I loved her all the more for that.

She lay beneath me, breathing heavily from our connection and looking upon me with dazzlingly bright eyes that had seen heartbreak, eyes that had born witness to far too much for one so innocent. I looked into those eyes, saw her soul. I saw her body for exactly what it was – perfection among and in spite of imperfection. And I loved her beyond human capabilities, beyond what words could adequately describe. I'm not sure I could ever say just how much life she had breathed back into my soul, once so fetid and distorted, but I swore then that I would never stop trying. She had given me more than I deserved, sacrificed so much for the sake of our togetherness, and yet even so there were times when she looked upon _herself_ as the selfish one. To say that I was fortunate to have ever encountered her was an understatement – I was a fool to ever think that I could have lived without her.

I moved within her again, compelled our hips back into a rocking motion and kissing her deeply. I meant to touch every inch of her, often eliciting cries of desire among calls of my own name from her that left me breathless – I never wanted it to end. We fell back into a long-lived rhythm that eventually sent us into ecstasy, overcome forcefully in the end by a shared climax that left us both shuttering and gasping in turn. When it was done we simply lay in one another's embrace, and suddenly it seemed the appropriate symbol of our lives together – exposed and vulnerable, turbulent thoughts waiting in the wings, yet we continued protecting each other with a fierce possessiveness that knew no match.

And that was simply how we were, what we had become. Not all days were occupied by such activities - yet at the same time we certainly were not lacking in the connection of intimacy, physical or otherwise. We lived and breathed as one, body and soul, and I had no complaints.


	26. And I'll Beg for Forgiveness

**Author's Note:** _So sorry it's been so long since the last update, and my apologies for the confusion about this chapter. Long story short on both accounts, my laptop died recently, which is a huge inconvenience, but before that I felt compelled to take down this chapter to make a few revisions. The story had been on a hiatus for a time, intentionally so before the laptop death, and that was due mostly to the fact that I had received some rather unpleasant private messages regarding the quality of this story. There was absolutely no constructive feedback, just a lot of aggressive statements about my lack of talent and so on. Annoying and unnecessary, to say the least. I'm all about feedback and constructive criticsism, but when none is given, it's admittedly a bit of a blow to the old creative ego. But I felt it was necessary to take a mental break rather than give up completely, which I was hesitant to do because I do so love writing this and have otherwise gotten wonderful praise and feedback from y'all. So thank you all again for your unwavering support, both here and on the Tumbles. Keep an eye out on my Tumblr account (spooky-mormon-hell-dream) for updates about this story and other projects. Feel free to follow and message me should you so desire, I have the mobile app. :p Anywhoodles, on the note of feedback, please leave reviews because, as always, I want to make sure this is a good quality read. I'm hoping that the pacing and exploration of emotions is done well and is realistic, especially regarding what our favorite couple is going through during Estelle's birthday as well as the announcement at the end of the chapter. This one was one of the more challenging chapters to write, so I'm hoping I did it justice. But anyway, feedback is greatly appreciated, especially in this case! And after this chapter, bear in mind that there **are** more to follow. We're not done yet, folks. ;) There will be more drama later - I just so love writing it, keeping you on your toes and all. Bwahahaha...Finally, this chapter's title also comes from the song "Silver and Cold" by AFI, just like the last one. They were originally one chapter that I broke in two, and I was glad to be able to have the lyrics flow so well as titles here. Welp, I believe that's all I need to say. Read, review, and enjoy! _

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Chapter 26 – And I'll Beg for Forgiveness

Erik

We were content throughout the autumn and on into the winter, existing much the same as ever with no more conflict than any other married couple – a taste of normalcy that still didn't fail to strike me with its unfamiliarity in contrast to my formative years. But even so, such unfamiliarity was of little consequence to our daily lives, and I resolved to simply ignore the sensation. It was far better to enjoy one another's company as we continued through our established routines – it was peaceful. Yet for as much as we had regained and learned about ourselves, as fiercely as we were determined not to allow our thoughts to stray too far backward, it didn't escape my notice that we were equally as determined not to think on many aspects of our future for long, deeming them in equal measure daunting yet inconsequential. If such notions were unsettling to Christine, she did not make mention of them, and so I resolved to simply let the issue lie; there was no use in contemplating something to the point of obsession without a true sense of direction. If simply experiencing the present moments kept us treading water, then all the better.

It would come to pass that allowing such a mindset had proven to be a heavy mistake, causing more setbacks than we had been prepared to face – in doing so, we had inadvertently left ourselves entirely unprepared for more inevitable pain.

It wasn't until February that there seemed to be any hint of true disquietude between us. I didn't need to ask to know the source of the problem; what should have been Estelle's first birthday – had she survived the impossibly difficult birth which had sealed her fate – was fast approaching. Christine and I were suddenly obliged to acknowledge the date for what it was, and when the day finally came we were left entirely unsure of how to continue on from that point. It was with a bitter clarity that we realized that we were once again set adrift within our own lives. It seemed as though we had been forced backward in time, back to those first terrible weeks of mourning, of blinding grief and guilt; despite our learned insistence that no one was truly at fault for the tragedy, the loss of our daughter was again more starkly apparent just the same, forcing us once again to question everything we knew and testing the tentative hold we had on the steadiness of our hearts.

When once we were convinced that we had made so much progress together, suddenly neither of us were so sure anymore; it was a crushing and unexpected blow.

I made every effort not to draw within myself once more, knowing that forced isolation would serve us no other purpose than to break away the bonds we had worked so fervently to revive between us. But it was exceedingly difficult to will myself into submission of logic, almost as physically painful as it was emotionally draining. I often felt myself compelled to give in to the call of the darker parts of my mind, if only to find some semblance of relief there. I wanted to be alone and remain so indefinitely, wanted to drink until the world ceased to exist in the hopes that answers would be found at the bottom of a bottle of brandy – I wanted to give in to my pain, because there were moments when there seemed to be no other ways out of its strangling hold. Still, I forced those thoughts away, opting instead to suffer in the land of the living like any other man. I was no longer granted the luxury of hiding behind a ghost's name, nor did I want to any longer. It frightened me how easy it was to want to move backward, and I wanted no part of it. Not again.

For Christine's part, it was clear to me that her suffering was magnified once again, that she struggled as badly as I did in her own ways that I could just barely imagine or understand. She was a mother without her child, enduring every day with that knowledge, and being reminded of that terrible truth that first year had proven time and time again to be its own brand of torture. I worried over her constantly. There were times when she withdrew herself from me entirely, returned to snappish and even self-destructive behavior, but I was more troubled by her internal turmoil. It seemed that the storm of grief and misplaced blame within her that, for all her efforts she just couldn't seem to relinquish permanently, had at once returned tenfold and settled stubbornly – often bringing her down to the brink of physical exhaustion and emotional anguish in her attempts to fend off reliving that singular nightmare. In her sincerest efforts, it seemed that she was neither comfortable to be in the presence of anyone, nor was she able to find calm within herself.

I understood her agitation well – it plagued my own heart, seemingly at every moment. What should have been the celebration of the first year of our child's life was warped into a bitter reminder that she wasn't there with us as she should have been; she never would be. It stung unbearably – the moment we became cognizant of that bleak fact, the very notion of our loss seemed to threaten to break us all over again. Indeed, it was exceedingly difficult to face the day itself, and even as time went forward it seemed all the more likely impossible to recover once again and return to our lives as we knew them. Without having to make the thoughts explicitly clear, we both wondered bitterly if every year would be as challenging, as troubling as that first birthday spent alone.

On the night itself, I found Christine upstairs on the balcony off of our bedroom. Despite being wrapped in a shawl, she shivered against the cold, moonless night; but even so she seemed to have made no effort before my arrival to remove herself from the uncomfortable environment. I knew that she heard me walk up behind her, but neither of us spoke initially; we were each lost in our own thoughts, each making a mighty effort to make sense of the impossible.

As I moved to stand at the railing beside her, I remembered looking up to that same starlit sky the year before, shouting agonizingly for answers I knew would never come. I remembered collapsing against the wall and crying until I was left breathless and shuddering, hating myself and hating God and wishing that the nightmare would just end. I missed Estelle so badly then that it hurt, and a year later I realized that while such pain had been allowed to dull with time, it never truly left; it was always there, waiting in the wings for the most opportune moment to present itself. I missed my daughter as badly then as I had the night that we lost her. Unconsciously, I took ahold of the golden cross around my neck, a gesture that I had repeated many times since donning its chain the first time. But where the act had once given me even the smallest comfort at the tangible reminder of my child, that night it only served as a symbol of the tragedy of its necessity.

Unsure of what I meant to say, I turned to speak to Christine – only to find that she had been weeping silently beside me as she looked up at the stars. I reached out for her hand, but she moved it away from mine in one sharp motion.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, knowing that I needed to tread delicately from that point.

"Why did you come out here that night?" she asked, ignoring my words.

Unbidden, the mournful and disjointed memories came flooding back to my consciousness in an instant, surprisingly and painfully clear in my mind's eye.

 _I had been so afraid of losing the person that I cherished most in the world, had watched her nearly bleed to death and witnessed the initial moments of her mourning our child. I wanted to take her pain away, to take it all upon myself where it belonged and make her understand that she was not at fault for what had happened. Yet the words wouldn't come to me then, and I opted to flee from the pain as I felt the world collapsing around me…furious that God had dangled the promise of a future before us and had snatched it back so suddenly…I just screamed, finally allowing myself to cry and leaving myself shuddering violently as my voice nearly went hoarse in my anguish. I hung my head down low as the tears fell; I couldn't move then, the despair was unstoppable…I hated myself then, hated myself for everything that I had done, for being selfish and foolish enough to drag my love down with me._

I shuddered at the long-passed scenes, guilt and grief overtaking my senses once more as those nightmarish visions played out once again.

I was silent a long while before I felt that I could make sense of my memories and respond properly, "I didn't want you to see me as broken as I was then."

"What did you do?"

Another pause, "I cried," shaking my head, I continued softly, "I was angry, I hated myself for ever putting through that pain, for settling you into a life with me to begin with if it meant losing her. It was unfair, selfish, and I hated myself," I laughed humorlessly, my bitterness becoming more apparent with each word I spoke, "I asked God why it happened, and it was silent. And…I just cried. I stayed until Vera found me."

She looked at me with impossibly miserable eyes, "You never told me that."

"Do you think it would have helped?"

"No," she admitted softly.

"That's why I didn't tell you. It didn't seem necessary, I didn't want to add to your suffering."

There was another stretch of silence before she spoke again, "Do you think she's happy?"

 _I looked up at the sky once more, seeing the stars burning before my eyes, impossibly far away. Such beauty, never to be grasped by human hands – lost to us all despite our longing to take up that beauty and cherish it. I wanted my daughter back._

 _Are you out there?_

"I hope so," I sighed, "I want to believe that she is."

She nodded, but said no more for a time. The silence stretched on again, interrupted only by the chilled breeze cutting through the night air and the pounding of our anguished hearts.

"Do you forgive me?" she asked suddenly.

I was taken aback, knowing exactly to what she referred yet not understanding how she could possibly question my stance on the matter, "What do you mean?"

"Do you forgive me?" she pressed, "Can you?"

I shook my head disbelievingly and said firmly, "I never blamed you. I thought, after everything we've been through, that you knew that," then adding softly, "I thought you had forgiven yourself."

"I thought so, too," she said tearfully, "Now I'm not so sure."

"Christine – "

"– Even now I look back and think of everything I did wrong."

"It was an accident," I insisted, "No one could have predicted it."

"I should have been more careful," she cried, "And it breaks my heart a little more every time I think about it, even when I try not to. Even when I try to be happy, when I _am_ happy again. But I just feel guilty, for my foolishness, for my happiness, and everything good just seems wrong again," she shook her head, "I thought I was better, but now I don't know what to do with myself anymore."

I understood the sensation – that desperate feeling of being lost – all too clearly, recalling vividly once again how terribly lost I myself had felt on that dark and empty night. More than once I had been ready to give up entirely.

 _I looked up into the sky, into that blackness dotted with the shimmering stars. Still crying, my breath coming in plumes before me in rapid succession, I felt a wave of misery come over me so strongly that I thought the blow would send me over the edge…I fought the overwhelming desire to end it all if only to kill the pain._

I remembered thinking all of those horrible things then with a violent pang of fear, absolutely terrified that Christine would ever be in such a dark and hopeless mindset.

"What can I do?" I asked, trying futilely to take her hands again and adding almost desperately with the distinct fear that I was about to lose her, "Tell me what do to."

 _There's nothing we can do, is there?_

She sighed, "I don't know."

With that, she turned away and went inside quickly, without another word spoken between us. I remained motionless on the spot, watching her leave and feeling as if I were witnessing a terrible omen.

Yes, I understood Christine's pain, but in return I felt terribly inadequate toward her plight.

There wasn't a single word I could say to her that could erase the horrors of the past; I was completely helpless and in turn, she continued to suffer. Even if she was willing to allow me to extend any part of myself for her, any piece of my heart that might heal her own, there was simply nothing I could do otherwise. And that was the worst part – we were once again rendered helpless and unsure. That exchange beneath the stars had reminded me of that much, mirroring the previous year so closely in some aspects that left me filled with dread and apprehension. I could provide little comfort to her beyond softly whispered sentiments and soothing gestures. Otherwise, I felt utterly lost once more, the very idea worsened significantly on a birthday that had also served as a death's anniversary.

It felt for all the world as if I had failed Christine all over again.

~~oOo~~

After that awful night, we quarreled often – simple matters of commonplace disagreement were amplified into veritable wars of the heart for no other reason than the fact that we were suffering, and we were obliged to unwillingly submit to that turmoil for lack of any other source of guidance. Tried as we did to call outside of ourselves for assistance, no one could help us, and we once again did not know how to help ourselves – not again. The first time was painful enough, and it would appear that we were as blind a year later as we were at the beginning of the ordeal. To my great fear and dismay, there were times when it was in our best interest to simply remain in our separate corners during the day. It was Hell, but in the end there was no other choice but to endure that as we had so many other instances of terrible doubt and pain. We had to be patient, whether or not we would accept that fact. I only wished I knew when and if it would end. I needed to know _how_ to make it end, yet once again I was left alone in the dark without answers.

We continued on in that fashion for quite some time, hesitant around one another and growing still more distant with each passing day punctuated by agonizing memories. By the end of the worst of it, March had arrived, and by then I had taken to working late in my office once more simply to grant Christine her peace in the only way that I knew how; it seemed that doing so was all I had left to give her, and so I accepted that renewed habit as graciously as humanly possible.

One such occasion would prove to be pivotal for us, a major turning point in our lives that we once again simply hadn't been expecting.

I had fallen asleep in my workspace. Sprawled out unceremoniously upon the divan, the book of designs I had been poring over long since fallen to the floor, I woke with a start when I realized how high the sun had already risen. The house was silent, but I was only barely conscious of that fact – it didn't seem significant in those first moments of wakefulness. I groaned and sat up stiffly, immediately regretting staying downstairs the night before. I hadn't intended to remain there through the night – I had not been banned from our bedroom entirely, after all, and remaining away from Christine for so long was not an act in which I wished to engage often. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to leave her isolated when darkness had overtaken the world each night; even at times when she was distant, it was nevertheless clear to me that she wished for me to be as near to her as possible in those still and silent hours before dawn, even if in physical proximity only. It was mending, even to the smallest extent, and while the time I spent working granted her the much needed moments of quiet reflection, it was an unspoken agreement between us never to sleep the whole night alone. Greatly frustrated at my shortsightedness, I reminded myself of that fact repeatedly as I meandered toward the staircase in the hopes of finding Christine readying herself for the day in our bedroom and meaning to offer what I could in the form of a loving greeting and a sincere apology.

To my surprise, it turned out that she wasn't there as she usually was that time of day, and upon further inspection I realized that she wasn't in the house at all. And moreover, I had no idea why. It was absolutely uncharacteristic of her not to leave a note, some sort of explanation for her absence should it be necessary. Suddenly I felt a blinding panic come over me that was nearly paralyzing, visions flashing in my mind of some great tragedy befalling her while I remained at home and entirely unaware of any potential danger approaching her. I shook my head at the very idea, dismissing it as foolish and deciding at that moment that dwelling upon horrid and unjustified fantasies would serve no other purpose than to torture myself and achieve absolutely nothing else. I knew that I would be utterly useless without acting with a clear head. Rather, I simply resolved to venture outside of the house and find her, knowing all the while that I would turn the whole of London upside down if doing so proved to be what it took to locate her. I wanted answers, but most of all I just wanted to see her safe.

Hastily readying myself for the journey, I steeled myself for the search as I shrugged into a coat, knowing that the early morning air of spring would still hold enough of a chill to aggravate my formerly broken bones that increased their protests against the cold more forcefully with each passing year.

I had just approached the front door when it opened in front of me, and I suppressed the urge to cry out in relief when Christine revealed herself, startled by my presence before her.

"Where were you?" I asked more sharply than intended, pulling her into the foyer and slamming the door shut in the process, "You had me scared to death, Christine. I was about to go out there looking for you. What happened?"

"Nothing happened," she replied distantly, almost absentmindedly, "I was…I thought I would be back before you woke up. I had to go out."

"Are you hurt?" I demanded, unintentionally raising my voice higher still in response to my increasing dread at her silence. I recognized immediately that something was off about her – something beyond her renewed melancholy – and I needed to know the truth; moreover, I needed to know that she was alright. I put my hands on her shoulders and held fast to her, suddenly desperate to prove to myself that she was there in front of me.

She shook her head, still not meeting my eyes, "No, I'm not hurt. I'm alright."

"Where were you?" I asked again, making a mighty effort to lower my voice.

"I went to see the doctor," she said, nearly too softly to hear.

I narrowed my eyes in abject confusion, "Why?"

Shaking her head again, this time almost disbelievingly, she spoke in a rush, "I wanted to be sure. I suspected it for some time, but I had to know for sure before I said anything to you."

She wasn't making any sense to me, and I was terrified, "Christine – "

"– I'm sorry."

" _Why_ are you sorry?"

"I'm pregnant," she admitted almost inaudibly, unshed tears shining in her eyes.

I felt my breath catch in my throat and I froze, deeply unsettled by the similarities between this announcement of the existence of our child and the first. My hands still held her shoulders, and I could feel her trembling beneath my touch, her body overtaken by her tears as she hung her head mournfully.

"You're pregnant," I repeated numbly, trying desperately to make sense of the words she had spoken, "Oh my God."

Suddenly it seemed foolish to be surprised; she had complained of feeling ill and out of sorts on more than one occasion, and until that February we certainly hadn't been strangers to one another. But it was an overwhelming announcement to take in nonetheless.

Memories and a seemingly endless array of emotions ran through my mind at a dizzying rate, each warring with one another for dominance at the forefront of my mind. It seemed nearly impossible to identify and define what I was feeling in those moments, but at last it dawned on me, almost jarringly so. Making my way through those emotions as quickly as possible, at last I finally determined that I was not at all displeased with the news – I could even go as far as to say that I was happy. I was in equal measure terrified, to be sure – over a year's worth of pain and doubt swiftly made themselves starkly known to my consciousness – but I could not bring myself to want to give in to them as violently as I had so long ago. It should have been wrong, I should have cursed myself for my relative joy in the face of my wife's obvious pain; but I realized quickly that there was no denying it, and that fact alone left my mind reeling. In light of everything we had been through, being told of the presence of another child was the absolute last thing I expected to hear from her. But I was glad of it just the same in spite of the turmoil building within me at all of the unspoken prospects it presented. I wouldn't think on it then, couldn't allow myself to stray from the moment at hand.

She nodded her confirmation hesitantly, "Yes, I am…Erik, I'm frightened."

A pang of guilt overcame me forcefully at her anguished admission. I was happy, and she was clearly and utterly terrified. I returned to my senses enough to truly see that unmasked and unmistakable terror in her eyes, now that they finally met my own in a silent plea for help. Of course she was terrified – she had been traumatized beyond reason by a senseless and unforeseen accident and had then been obliged to relive those memories quite vividly just a year later – after we had been so sure that we had gotten through the worst of it. She had almost died trying to bring our first child into the world, only to have the infant's life snuffed out before it even began. Christine's heart had been shattered almost beyond recognition or repair that night, her body broken and her only experience of motherhood tarnished, the passing of that first year bitterly reminding her of that – only to realize that, once again, a new life had begun within her. And that truth held all the uncertainty of the world and then some – experience had taught us enough about that.

Letting out a shuddering breath I didn't realize I was holding in, I quickly brought Christine into a tight embrace – comforting her, comforting myself, desperate to rein in my chaotic thoughts. She held onto me as if her life depended on the feeling of my arms around her, finally breaking apart altogether, sobbing against me and giving herself to her fear.

"Be calm," I said tremulously, "It's alright."

"I'm frightened," she repeated.

"I know," I hesitated before admitting, "So am I."

"What if something goes wrong again? What if we lose – "

"– Don't. Don't think about that."

"I'm sorry," she cried as she pulled away from me, not quite letting go entirely, but as I expected the apology wasn't in regards to her worries, "I hadn't intended for this to happen. I shouldn't have allowed it, I wasn't careful enough."

"You didn't exactly act alone," I reminded her humorlessly, sighing with renewed exhaustion, "We did absolutely nothing to prevent this. It wasn't about being careful or not. We didn't even talk about the possibilities."

She paused, looking away once more before continuing, "Are you angry?"

Shocked by her question, I tilted her chin upward to look at her squarely, "Is that what you think?" Her stiff, confirming nod broke my heart, compelling me to continue, "I'm not angry, Christine. Not at all – no, look at me – How can you think that I would be angry?"

"Because I couldn't be Estelle's mother. I couldn't be the mother to your child once –"

"– Not by your own choice."

"And if that happens again? I have to wonder, even now, if it was my fault."

"It wasn't. And I don't blame you."

"Erik – "

"I _never_ did," I said firmly, resolved to continue to remind her of that truth every day if necessary and sighing with relief to finally see her nod of acceptance in that moment.

"But I'm still so afraid."

I sighed and held out my hand to her, "Come with me."

I led her to the parlor, guiding her to sit beside me on the divan as we had countless times before. Selfishly, I needed to hold her closer to me, but even so I knew that what I needed to say to her wouldn't be easy to hear – I needed to be able to take her in my arms if only to comfort her.

I measured my words carefully before beginning to speak, "I know that you're afraid, just as I am, but I don't want that fear to define this experience for us. We can't think that there is any reason to be so unsure. I just want you to be happy," I brushed her hair away from her eyes and paused, considering before pressing on, "The first time you told me that you were pregnant, I was terrified. I was so afraid that Vito was going to take everything from us that I ran from you. And even when he was gone, I was too lost in my own damn selfish stupidity to speak with you about it, so much so that I hurt you in my foolishness. I denied you my pride and celebration, and I will always regret that."

"But you came around, in time," she whispered in my defense.

I sighed, "Too much time. But I won't let that happen again. I am proud of you, Christine, and I want us to celebrate this," I laid a hand upon her abdomen, feeling lost in my words, as if I couldn't properly convey what was in my heart, but still I knew I had to keep trying, "You're so brave, even now when I see you doubt it, you're brave. And I'm so very proud of you. I'm grateful to have been able to create this life with you," I shook my head in a continued attempt to collect my thoughts, "This is a good thing, it has to be. It has to mean that we can keep living. I cannot let this experience be tainted for you by circumstances beyond our control. You deserve so much better than that."

She placed her hand over mine and held on tightly, "I can believe you," she said slowly after a long consideration, "I want to believe you. Just…promise me it will be alright."

I looked at her uncertainly, suddenly unwilling to make any vow that I wasn't sure I could guarantee honoring. Could anyone truly make that promise and actually keep it? But I couldn't help but lose myself in her desperate need for assurance, and right or wrong, I found myself nodding in acceptance of her request. It was my duty, my right as her husband to do whatever was necessary to ensure her safety and confidence, and I would have been a fool to ignore that fact. I realized then that I would move mountains if it meant fulfilling that promise, and I would do so gladly in return for her happiness – for her wellbeing and our child's.

I took her hand and kissed it softly before saying, "I love you."

She smiled upon me tearfully, and that simple phrase was the last of the words spoken between us for a time.

I continued to hold her close to me – we remained lost in one another's embrace for what seemed like an eternity, struggling to make sense of just how quickly and unexpectedly our lives had changed once again, and just when we had thought we had returned to our lowest points and were meant to remain so indefinitely. But instead, it was as if the entire world had shifted for us, finally in our favor, and it was overwhelming to try to understand in a matter of mere moments. We needed time on our sides in order to somehow find that understanding. In the meantime, we simply existed beside one another, trembling and tentative in our movements – this time for vastly different reasons than similar circumstances and gestures long since passed. I knew without a doubt that I loved her beyond reason; that was enough for me then. I only wished that conveying that to her could give her even the smallest level of comfort and confidence. We were both unable and unwilling to leave those moments reminding us of our love amidst our fears – we simply had to be together and sort out all the rest in time.

And life went on.


	27. And Nothing Else Matters

**Author's Note:** _Hello again! Yay for another update, and so quickly, too! Drinks all around! But seriously, I was glad for the opportunity to borrow my friend's laptop this week, because while mine is broken I've been having crazy withdrawls from not being able to write and edit properly. But I'm glad to say that I should be able to replace my own laptop soon and be back to my work in no time. Meanwhile, I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. It was fun to write, and I was glad to give the characters a little break from the shit-storms that I usually give them. **Please review** and let me know how it turned out. I had a bit of fun adding some foreshadowing, because as I've said, we're not quite through here yet. My most up-to-date outline has us at 35 chapters total, so sit tight. Does anyone have any guesses as to what the foreshadowing might be? Feel free to let me know and/or ask questions. Again, I enjoy the feedback and comments and I want to make this phic as well-done as possible. Anywhoodles, that's really all there is to say on that note. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the song "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica, which I know is a bit out of no where, but it seemed fitting for the events that unfold in this part of the story. So I'll let y'all get right to it! Read, review, and most of all enjoy! _

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Chapter 27 – And Nothing Else Matters

Christine

The initial fear that I expressed to Erik remained for several weeks after my announcement, but even so it was an uneventful pregnancy, much to my immense relief. Still, it took me quite a while to find my peace again. Only time, understanding, and quiet reflection with my husband could bring that about for the both of us. It would prove to be a near-constant battle between acceptance and doubt; sometimes I would gain the upper hand over my warring thoughts and remain in that spirit for quite a while, yet still there were times that I felt utterly defeated and would have to drive myself to start all over again; I had to assure myself repeatedly that all would be well in the end. Outwardly, everything progressed as it was meant to, much like my first pregnancy. I had absolutely no cause for concern over the safety of my baby – the doctor had made that explicitly clear during his repeated assurances on my behalf. But during the weeks that followed, my heart held fast to an absolute storm of guilt and doubt.

I found myself questioning our timing and concurrently realizing our folly at allowing ourselves to let time pass us by – for not obliging ourselves to glimpse into the future and consider the consequences of our actions. I did not regret that we had conceived another child, but I knew that we had grown complacent in the steadiness of our hearts – the events of Estelle's birthday and the turbulent days which followed had been more than enough proof of that – and in doing so we had left ourselves all the more vulnerable to our fears during such an unexpected turning point in our lives. And worse, I had the terrible inkling that having another baby so soon was somehow disrespectful to the memory of our first child. At the outset we were unsure of how to come to terms with that, how to let go of the darkness of the past and allow ourselves to become immersed in joyous anticipation. I had to constantly remind myself of the nature of the unforeseen circumstances surrounding Estelle's death, for even as my remaining guilt lingered, logically I knew that it was simply an accident. Surely such a nightmare could not happen a second time, and I was doing us all a great disservice by dwelling on that which could not be changed.

Erik was happy with the news, to be sure, but even so he shared my resounding fears in equal measure. He was as protective over me as he was during my first pregnancy, if not more so. Perhaps we were both unconsciously overcautious, but it was a point over which neither of us would concede. Rather, we took each day in stride as we fought our way through the echoes of our past. Of course, some days were better than others, but on the whole it was almost healing to exercise that caution together. I had to wonder if it meant that I might finally forgive myself for losing Estelle once and for all, that her memory in some small way was helping to protect a younger sibling that would never know her. And with that understanding came the promise that she would not be forgotten or overlooked; neither Erik nor I would allow that. It took time to once again accept the notion that life would move forward whether we liked it or not, and more importantly that nothing could diminish the love we held in our hearts for our daughter. Our love for her was almost reverent, and as the weeks passed I could only hope to allow myself to realize that the love I felt for this new baby was as strong – it was _right_. In realizing this, it became clearer to me with each passing day that we could move forward with bringing this new life into the world without fear of tarnishing the precious life to which we were forced to bid farewell far too soon.

Still, the idea of the new baby remained just that for quite some time – an idea, something intangible and not yet understood. It was as if I needed a proper introduction to the child I carried before I could truly acknowledge its existence. That thought did little to ease my guilt initially, but in the end I came to entirely understand that this pregnancy, while utterly healthy in every sense, would be exceedingly unique. There were simply too many fears and emotions to be cast aside quickly; the willingness to look forward to the future was there, but I often found myself held back by the darkest echoes of the past nevertheless. And so as time went on, although I took great care to ensure the health and safety of myself and my baby, I was otherwise hesitant to acknowledge that new life. Even Erik, despite his admitted happiness at my news, shared in my hesitance. Many of his original doubts came flooding back, coupled with his terror that we might still have to relive the nightmare from the year prior. But he stayed by my side even so, and for that I was immensely grateful.

It wasn't until I felt the baby move within me for the first time that I felt my confidence reemerge at last. It was quite a sudden thing – I had been expecting to feel that movement, of course, but when it finally happened I realized just how significant it was for me. It was as if the baby was demanding my attention, reminding me that there was a little person waiting in the wings for the day when we would finally meet face-to-face, and I had to acknowledge it as such. It happened in the middle of the night, a fluttering so strong that I was awakened immediately with a start. I gasped and encircled my arms around my abdomen, taken aback at first until comprehension slowly dawned in my weary mind. I sat upright, completely still and breathless for a few flitting moments before I gathered my courage and looked down to its swell as the child within greeted me once again, more powerfully than the first time. It was in equal parts marvelous and terrifying, but even then I could not say it was a negative experience at all. Rather, the fear seemed to be utterly commonplace – the kind of fear that any mother would feel at the prospect of the unknown, at the idea of the momentous changes that were slowly but surely unfolding at the undaunted passage of time.

I felt Erik stir beside me as he turned up the lamp. I had awoken him with my own abrupt waking, and it was obvious in his expression that he was frightened by my unexplained upright position in the darkness. Upon seeing where my hands rested, he seemed to grow that much more concerned.

"Is something wrong?" he asked softly yet urgently, ready offer his assistance if necessary.

"No, nothing at all. Here," I replied in a whisper as I took his hand in mine and placed it over the source of my sudden wakefulness.

He smiled at me and said, "Well, this one appears to be awake."

I laughed, "Yes, so much so that he decided to wake the entire household, it seems."

"He's going to be alright," he said in a more serious tone.

"I know," I whispered, finally willing myself to believe that his words held the truth.

He wrapped his arm around me and eased us both into lying down again, but we said nothing further that night, each lost in our own respective amazement. Erik held me close to him as we fell once again into the embrace of slumber, this time as if a great weight had been taken from our shoulders. Before I dozed off entirely, I became cognizant of the fact that my little one had granted me a wonderful gift that night – it seemed for all the world as if I had gained my strength back, that I had finally relinquished my guilt enough to look ahead toward the future and understand that it was completely within the realm of possibility to be enjoyed.

~~oOo~~

As the weeks continued on, our lives progressed in a whirlwind of mingled preparation and anticipation. There was much that needed to be attended to before the baby was born, and I was acutely aware of just how easy it could be to remain inactive in favor of simple rest and relaxation – I would be lying if I said it wasn't tempting to simply lounge about, especially when the days began to give way to warmer weather. But I compelled myself, however grudgingly, to see to each detail that required my attention, ever mindful of my need to be careful and not to overexert myself. If anything, keeping busy served as an effective way to keep myself from worrying overly much.

As summertime approached, I was granted some renewed energy, and with that decided it was time to make sense of the nursery before the time inevitably arrived that I would simply not have the drive or ability to do so. I knew that during the end of my pregnancy I would be very much in need of rest, and so before that time came it seemed prudent to take care of practical matters. Vera provided me her time and assistance in that endeavor, fussing alongside me even over small and seemingly inconsequential details. On the whole it was a pleasant experience, the days we spent in that room providing me with much needed confidence at the notion that I would soon be spending a great amount of time in that space. We didn't keep many of Estelle's baby things – opting instead to hold on to small mementos that we could hold dear in her memory rather than torturing ourselves by dedicating the nursery as a mausoleum to our suffering. Instead, we started anew, and as a result it was a deeply healing experience. No longer did I fear or dread setting foot within those once eerily silent walls – they no longer held a loathsome power over me, and I was grateful that such a change in my perspective had occurred. As with every aspect of this pregnancy, it was prudent that I look toward the future; allowing myself to sink into my grievous thoughts would get me nowhere, of that I was entirely certain.

The changing of seasons brought with them letters from Meg, at first filling me in about the goings on in Paris – both socially and politically – although to my great dismay not much was known about Raoul beyond petty rumors that I was sure were entirely untrue. I worried over him, but there was not much to be done beyond that. Even so, her words assured me of his wellbeing in spite of all that was said, and once again I let the matter stand.

At any rate, I was eager to read the passages of Meg's correspondence detailing her marriage to the man that she had quickly come to adore, a Monsieur Giles Moreau. Although I regretted that my condition meant that I was hesitant to travel for any extended period of time and therefore could not attend their ceremony, I was absolutely beaming with excitement upon reading her words, exceedingly proud of my dear friend for the happiness that she had found in the arms of a man that was quite obviously devoted to her. I knew that finding such a strong love in someone was a precious thing – I had learned long ago just how lonesome life can be without that singular connection to another person. I couldn't imagine how very incomplete I was bound to feel without Erik by my side, and it was welcomed news that Meg had found her heart's companion as well. My heart felt lighter at having read her letter, and I quickly composed a response of my own containing both my congratulations and my sincerest wish for their continued bliss. I had hoped that I could do more for them, but they understood my reasons for remaining in England for the time being. I knew that in time they would cross the boarders to come and see us, and I looked forward to that occasion.

While I wrote to Meg regularly, I also made my plans with Madame Giry to come and stay with us for a time before the baby arrived. She had offered her assistance very shortly after I wrote to her that I was expecting, and I accepted immediately, grateful for her kindness. I knew that I would need her guidance as I made my way through both my anticipation of motherhood and those first few weeks of the baby's life when surely I would be overwhelmed with every change that was in store. Moreover, I knew that in some small way Madame harbored her own measure of guilt for the tragedy of losing our first child, even if that guilt was unconscious on her part. She had once expressed how badly she regretted that it was in anticipation for her previous visit that the accident had taken place, but at the time when she spoke those words I was utterly unable to accept what she meant to convey. I wanted to extend my invitation into our home once again if it meant that we could all meet on surer emotional footing. But even with the knowledge that we had quite a bit of lost time to make up for, I looked forward to her visit fervently.

In the meantime, I was content to spend my time with Erik. We would spend our days together much the same as ever – surrounding ourselves with our respective tasks, with our beloved music, and continuing to make every attempt to carry on. But it was in the stillness of the night, once he made his way upstairs after working late in his study and looking forward to the calming embrace of slumber, that we would dream aloud of the baby we had yet to meet, lost in reflection at times and allowing ourselves to enjoy the tranquility. Summer was quickly fading into autumn, and with that passage of time would come the day our lives would change forever once again.

Until that day finally arrived, we needed only to be patient.

~~oOo~~

The curtain in the nursery billowed against the floor like a scrim upon the stage as the October breeze made its way into the room. Erik stood before me, leaning against the window frame and staring out into the golden light of the approaching sunset, his eyes distant. But even so lost in his thoughts as he was, I knew that he was paying close attention to me just the same should I require him. I took a moment to study him, seeing the worry in his features that had steadily increased throughout the day. I had gone into labor early that morning, a labor which progressed agonizingly slowly but otherwise ordinarily. He had stayed by my side throughout much of the day, attending to practical matters only when absolutely necessary and otherwise delegating anything else to Madame Giry and Vera – both of whom had dutifully settled themselves downstairs in anticipation for what the night would bring.

The hours passed rather uneventfully for the longest time; we both simply had to be patient and wait until our child chose to make its first appearance into our lives. But in spite of the utter normalcy of the process, Erik worried over me nonetheless. I understood why well enough. As the hour of the birth of our child drew closer, my trepidation had reemerged and increased tenfold. Madame Giry had assured me that what I was experiencing was normal, and I trusted her judgment in that, but even so I knew why such fear went deeper than it outwardly appeared. On more than one occasion that day I had endured flashes of memories from the night Estelle was born, and I couldn't help but be apprehensive toward bringing my second child into the world. Tried as I did to remind myself that it wasn't likely that anything would go wrong, the trauma I had been made to endure had ensured that I would have some lingering fear toward the experience. I simply had to be mindful of the differences in circumstances and wait for the events to unfold as they would.

I took a deep breath and tried to allow myself some measure of comfort by the coolness of the air, simultaneously moving in the rocking chair upon which I sat in an attempt to stave off the wave of pain that had settled over me once again. It seemed that I had failed in concealing my discomfort, my sharp intake of breath coupled with my increased grip on the arms of the chair seeing to that. Erik made his way from the window to me, glancing briefly at his pocket watch before taking my hands in his.

"It won't be long now," he said quietly.

"Has the midwife arrived yet?"

"Yes, she's waiting downstairs. I know you'd prefer to be alone a little while longer."

"Thank you," I smiled at his consideration.

He kneeled beside me as I returned to moving the chair beneath me in steady, even patterns, imagining that very soon I would be holding my baby in my arms while singing lullabies in that very spot. It was a calming image, but it was interrupted all too soon by another contraction. I gasped before holding my breath, willing the pain away. I clutched at Erik's hand, and he returned the gesture dutifully.

"You need to breathe evenly, Christine. Holding your breath will just make it worse."

I exhaled obediently before saying, "I don't recall it being this bad."

"You're doing well," he assured me, "You're doing just fine."

I sighed, "I think perhaps you've more faith in me than I do. Right now I feel quite unprepared for this," he only smiled sympathetically as I continued, "I think I should walk a little. Help me stand?"

He obliged my request, handling me gently and supporting me as I moved slowly about the room. The motion eased my discomfort for a time, but it wasn't long before I cried out in pain again, turning to face him as I sought comfort in his embrace. The pain was intensifying and occurring at more regular intervals with less time between the last bout – I knew the telltale signs that it would soon be time to give birth, and I felt my heartbeat quicken at the prospects presented to me. I felt for a brief moment that I would panic, and I made a mighty effort to stifle the urge; I knew that I was simply worrying myself into a frenzy and I wanted nothing more than to keep a clear head.

"I think it's time to fetch the midwife," Erik said evenly as my grip tightened on his shoulders.

"No, wait a little while longer," I pled.

"You can't put this off forever, darling. I don't think our little one will permit it."

"You're approaching this rather calmly," I retorted with mild annoyance.

"I'm a fabulous actor. In truth, I'm terrified," he paused before adding seriously, "I know that you are, too. I know what the gravity of this is, but remember that these are different circumstances. This baby is going to be perfectly fine, and you're going to be a wonderful mother."

I sighed and smiled up at him, knowing that he was right and allowing his words to settle into my heart. With a nod I dismissed him to retrieve the midwife from downstairs, feeling a mingled dread at the pain to come and fervent excitement for what the result of that pain would be.

Erik returned a short time later with the midwife and her young apprentice in tow. We had opted to request assistance from a different midwife than the one that assisted in delivering Estelle. No one questioned my choice in the matter; it was understood without needing to be explicitly spoken that I wanted as few reminders of that ordeal as possible. Perhaps it was merely superstition, but a part of me felt that any similarities between the two events would only prove to be ill-omens. I needed as much self-assurance as possible, and so I did everything in my power to grant myself however much confidence I could. The midwife present now was a stern yet jovial woman, and her own confident air helped to sooth me as she and Erik led me to the bed. From there it was simply a matter of preparing for the imminent birth and waiting for her to guide me through it.

"You will stay with me, won't you?" I asked Erik almost desperately, already knowing the answer and ignoring the disapproving sidelong glance from the midwife. She knew beforehand what my wishes were, and although societal traditions compelled her to protest Erik's presence there that night, she was kind enough not to give voice to her qualms.

"Of course I will," he responded with placating evenness as I took his hand. I knew that I couldn't have brought our child into the world alone – not after what had happened to us – and being reassured of his continued presence brought be that much more comfort.

The sun was beginning to set by the time I settled in completely, casting that unique golden autumn glow over the world that in any other situation surely would have been soothing, but I was only dimly aware of the peace promised by the encroaching darkness coupled with the activity around me made by the other occupants of the room. I was experiencing the most excruciating pain I had felt in a long time – almost constantly by then – and I cried out often, resignedly finding myself unable to stifle the urge to do so. I was eager to hold my baby in my arms, but I began to wonder if I was capable outlasting the delivery itself. I wasn't sure if I had the patience or the endurance; I simply wanted it to be over.

"We still haven't chosen a name," Erik said at one point some time later, still holding my hand and attempting to distract me after I had taken to lying on my side to relieve some of my pain. On the whole, the action had proven rather unsuccessful, and I was left practically writhing in agony.

"I've thought of a few that I favor," I said breathlessly, obliging him even as I closed my eyes tightly in yet another effort to remain calm.

"Tell me what they are."

I cried out again, "I can't do this…"

"You're doing fine," he insisted, "Tell me the names you've chosen."

"Alright," I said determinedly before taking a deep breath, "For a boy, I like William. Or Charles."

"Why those names?"

"They're very traditionally English," I smiled weakly, "I thought it was fitting."

"Fitting for we the immigrants, the expatriates of France?" he laughed, "You're absolutely correct. And I think I prefer Charles."

I meant to reply in agreement, but once again I was overtaken by a strong contraction; I was distantly aware of the midwife's voice, speaking to me and her apprentice in turn. I could only just make out her words, followed her instructions mechanically and distantly wondering once again just how much more pain I could bear that night. It didn't seem within the realm of human endurance to be made so suffer so.

"Your baby will be here soon," she said encouragingly. I could only groan in response.

"What about a girl?" Erik continued, knowing that his line of questioning had for the most part successfully distracted me before.

"It'll be a boy," I said determinedly. In truth, I couldn't say that I would mind having another daughter, but I greatly feared how painful it might be to look upon her face day after day and remember the daughter we had lost. Perhaps it was selfish, but I knew myself well enough to know that some parts of me might not be able to handle that pain. I would love my child no matter what, but I silently hoped that I might be blessed with a little boy simply for the fact that it would be easier on all accounts.

"Just in case," he pressed.

I thought for a moment, my thoughts becoming more clear as the pain receded once again, "Catherine. Or perhaps Evelynn."

"Evelynn," he repeated softly, "That name goes nicely with Estelle's, don't you think?"

"I do," I said with a smile. He returned it almost sadly, running his thumb over my fingers in a comforting gesture as the clock ticked closer to the arrival of our baby.

It wasn't long after that discussion that the midwife announced to me that the time had come for the baby to be born at last. Once I was moved carefully into a better position to deliver, she spoke more reassurances in hushed tones as she informed me of what to expect in the moments ahead. I groaned again, resigned to the fact that the real struggle was only just beginning. During the delivery itself, I followed every instruction that she and her apprentice gave me, but even so I was wholly overwhelmed by the pain I felt. There were moments when I was positive that nothing else existed in the world beyond that misery. While I had been expecting it, had been through the process before, I felt as though a part of me had intentionally forgotten just how intense it would be when it actually occurred. I cried out often – as much as I tried to stifle the action – feeling at times as if I was breaking and soon finding myself giving in to a rapidly encroaching exhaustion. The time finally came that the midwife was telling me to push – _commanding_ me,really – and once again I was overwhelmed by an urgent sense of dread and panic as I struggled to maintain my focus.

I cried out yet again, gripping Erik's hand so tightly that I absently wondered if I was going to hurt him. If I had caused him any discomfort, he made no mention of it; rather, he held my hand just as tightly, whispering reassurances and praises. I could see the worry that still lingered in his eyes, knew that it wasn't easy for him to be there with me. I knew that his memories plagued him as viciously as my own – especially on that occasion, they were at the very forefront of his thoughts – and once again I realized how grateful I was that he had assented to my request to remain by my side. When I felt his hand clasp around my own, I knew that I could conquer anything even in spite of my very real fears.

It seemed as though I had been lying in that bed for hours, when in truth the delivery itself had been relatively short in comparison to the preceding laboring. But even so I felt that I was reaching my physical limit; I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on in that manner. And so it came as a great relief when the midwife announced that the baby was nearly there. Erik shifted for a moment in order to receive a blanket from the midwife's apprentice and place it over my abdomen. At his movement, I was gripped by the quite irrational notion that he was going to loosen his grip on my hand.

"Don't let go," I cried miserably.

"I'm not letting go. I'm right here," he assured me softly, squeezing my hand emphatically.

All at once there was a great pressure, a nearly immeasurable pain, and with one final cry on my part there was then absolute relief. And then suddenly _he_ was there. I felt an intense euphoria, felt as though time stood still. Night had fallen by the time the baby was born, and in the stillness of the evening the room had fallen still and silent, almost ethereal in its quality. I felt nothing short of awestruck as I took my first glance at the small and wriggling form in the older woman's capable hands.

"Is the baby alright?" I asked, quite impatient to have him in my arms.

"Absolutely fine, my dear," the midwife said, clearing his mouth and maneuvering him gently in preparation to pass him along to me, "Perfectly healthy."

And then I heard the sound I for which I had waited so long.

 _Oh my God…_

"He's crying," Erik murmured in a shaking voice that mirrored my own turbulent emotions. His relief was nearly tangible.

"Congratulations, you have a son," the midwife said proudly as she placed the baby on the blanket upon my abdomen, "Say hello to your little boy."

"A boy," I repeated softly, tears springing to my eyes as Erik released my hand in favor of me being better able to hold the baby. I glanced at him as I breathed, "Charles."

"It appears you were right," Erik said proudly, "It's a boy after all."

I fell in love with Charles the very moment I saw him. He cried out with all of the strength that only newborns seem to possess, and it seemed to be the only sound in the world that mattered. I laughed even as the tears continued to flow from my eyes, my heart soaring at what I was experiencing. He was beautiful, _perfect_. To me, he was the embodiment of perfection – even had he inherited his father's deformity, I knew then that no force in the world could have swayed my opinion of him, simply because I was his mother, and I was hopelessly in love. I moved the little blanket more securely around him and held him as close to myself as possible, feeling a wonderful serenity overtake my senses.

"You were marvelous, Christine," Erik said, brushing my hair away from my flushed face, "You did so well."

"Thank you for staying with me," I said tearfully.

He leaned forward and kissed me very softly before we each turned our attention back to our son. Charles calmed slightly in my arms, but even so he would cry out at intervals as if believing that we had somehow forgotten about him. I laughed at his display as I absently wondered if he would always prove to be as stubborn as his father, or if he would come to be more timid like me. At length the midwife's apprentice scooped him into her arms to finish cleaning and swaddling him while the midwife moved to continue tending to me. I felt terribly lonely as I watched him being carried across the room, but even stronger than that longing to hold him close was my concern for him.

"Will you stay with the baby?" I asked Erik quickly, "I don't want him to be alone."

"Of course," he assented and made his way toward Charles, assisting the apprentice in her work and speaking softly to the infant as he looked down upon him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the midwife had finished tending to me and permitted Erik to bring the baby back to my waiting arms. He held Charles closely to himself as he made his way over to me, handling the infant with all the care in the world. I reached out eagerly when Erik passed him over to me. Once again time seemed to stand still – the world had shifted beneath us, so wondrously that I was scarcely able to believe that my heart could contain the happiness that I felt at having my son safely cradled in my arms. Nestled comfortably in his blankets, he had stopped crying by then; he instead looked up at me with intensely focused eyes as if he was trying to make sense of this strange new environment in which he had suddenly become a significant player. I stroked his dark and wispy hair gently, looked into his tired little eyes, and I never wanted to let go of him. I would never have to; he was alive, healthy. He was absolutely perfect, and I was left utterly speechless, weeping joyously at his very presence. I knew then that all of the pain that I had endured that night was worth it.

Erik sat down next to me quietly, kissing me once again on the forehead before we both returned our attention entirely to our son. _Our son_ – our beautiful little boy, the wonderful new life that our love had created at a time when we had been all but entirely adrift within our own lives. We had been through so much in our time together – my heart could barely comprehend the joy I felt when I was able to hold my son for those significant first moments of his life. Suddenly it seemed to me that everything we had endured had been soothed; the world narrowed to just Charles in my arms and Erik by my side, the thought of Estelle close to our hearts.

In those moments we were whole again.

~~oOo~~

Erik

At length, after the midwife and her apprentice had concluded their duties for the night, Christine requested that I go downstairs to fetch Madame Giry and Vera so that they could meet Charles. Although I obliged her, I was admittedly hesitant to leave the nursery. Since the moment Charles was born I had been overtaken by a feeling of uncharacteristic enthusiasm at the prospect of what my life had become, the likes of which I had never known before. But the feeling was otherwise not unwelcome – I was glad for the experience. I had become a father, being able this time to entirely embrace the title. It was overwhelming, to be sure, but all the same it was something that left me beaming with pride. I didn't want that feeling to cease.

It had been a singularly surreal experience – to witness my son's entrance in to the world, to hear his cries and know that he was safe had impacted me more than I had thought possible. Like Christine, I had loved Charles from the very moment he was born, and I swore then and there that no harm would ever befall him. His face was mercifully unblemished, although that fate had long ago been placed far away from more immediate concerns regarding his health – but even so I knew what cruelties the world held even for the most fortunate of men. I would do anything and everything in my power to ensure that my son would never know suffering, that he would want for nothing. I would give him the entire world if he asked it of me. I did not know that night what the future held – I still hadn't the faintest idea of exactly _how_ to be his father – but I was certain that at the very least I would never let him down. He was at the very center stage of my mind as I left the women upstairs to fawn over the infant, and with that image came the silent vow of my protection, my devotion. Just as I had offered that promise to Christine in return for her heart, I knew that I would lay down my own life for my son's if I had to; I would do so gladly for my family.

In the midst of these reflections, Madame Giry and Vera came upon me in the parlor after their introduction to Charles; Madame took me up in a wordless embrace that I was able to return sincerely. It had been so different from the last time she had been a guest in my home – where before she held me with sympathy, now she looked upon me with a kind of motherly pride that I had never known before her entry into my life. I was glad that the contrast was in our favor that night, that the reason for her extended presence in London was in celebration of a new life rather than the mourning of one lost. Vera embraced me after Madame Giry – albeit hesitantly on both our parts – but her sincerity was plain, and I was grateful that I did not inspire loathing in her as I had for so many others countless times before. When Madame retired to the guest room and Vera took her leave home, I made my way back upstairs once again, eager to be with my small family.

I paused at the doorway immediately upon my arrival, lost in complete awe at the sight before me. I could still hardly believe that what I beheld was real, and yet there in front of me was my wife and son, two of the people I held closest to my heart; I loved them more than I ever thought imaginable. I suddenly felt unable to move, opting instead to look in on the scene before me. Christine held Charles to her breast, nursing him and gazing upon him with seemingly as much reverence and disbelief as I felt in those moments. She looked happier than I had seen her in a long time, a genuine smile of contentment playing across her features, and to me she was absolutely beautiful. It was a relief to see that light behind her eyes again – for far too long had her vibrant spirit been hampered by the ghosts of our past, but that night it seemed that she had finally been granted her well-deserved reprieve. I knew, with an all-too familiar pang of guilt, just how hard it had been to emerge from that battle as the victor.

"I don't know whether I should thank you, or apologize," I said after a time.

She looked up at me and laughed as she asked, "What do you mean?"

I approached the bed and sat down next to her gently, mindful to not jostle the baby, "You've given me a family. I never thought I would have this, and I'm so grateful to you. I'm proud of you. I can't imagine what pain you've gone through to bring this child into the world."

"Ah, well, it _is_ the burden of women, I'm afraid. But I was glad for the experience just the same. He's worth it," she said, smiling toward the bundle in her arms.

"Even so, you were so very brave."

She smiled but said nothing more for a time before whispering, "Estelle has been on my mind quite a bit today."

"Mine as well," I said honestly, "I think we're both missing her more on this occasion."

"For so long I felt guilty for looking forward to meeting Charles," she began hesitantly before collecting her thoughts, "I felt as though I was being disrespectful, or that I would somehow forget Estelle. Yet now I find that I cannot bring myself to believe that is possible anymore."

"What _do_ you believe now, then?"

She paused, "Now it seems to me that she's still here, somehow. That my love for Charles does not diminish the love I have for our daughter. We lost her, but that doesn't mean we never grew to love her. It's comforting, really. It feels like the future is far less daunting, as if her memory is a gift that I can take up and use to heal my heart."

"You know," I began after considering her words, "I don't think we'll ever be able to understand why we lost her, but I think that you're right. We dwelled on the pain of losing her for so long that moving on seemed impossible. If anything, having her has given us a strength I don't think we knew that we had. That has to mean something."

"I'm just so glad he's here," she whispered fondly to Charles.

"He seems to be doing well," I said lightly, knowing that no more was required to say on Estelle's part; we were far better able to regard her than we had been in the past, but even so I knew not to press our luck. I wanted to think about Estelle that night without the lingering pain that would always accompany thoughts of her. For the moment it was simply easier to regard her in every way except being gone from our lives. But even so, it was clear just how much we were missing her.

"He is doing _very_ well," she said with an adoring smile, "Do you see his little mouth moving? He's taken to nursing just right. Some babies have trouble, you know. Not our boy."

"I'm proud of him. Already he's showing off his intelligence."

"Just like his papa," she teased.

I leaned forward, mindful once again to not disturb the baby, and kissed her. I felt her love returned in that gesture, and I was content for the moment in everything we had accomplished together, everything we had been given.

"I love you, Christine," I said when we parted, "Thank you."

She smiled, "I love you, too, darling."

~~oOo~~

Christine had long since fallen asleep when I held Charles in my arms later that night. He was awake, but not yet crying for his mother, and as I held him I did all that I could to prevent his waking her for as long as possible. She was utterly exhausted and I wanted to grant her as much opportunity to rest as possible before she would inevitably have to tend to our son. But even though he was awake, he seemed content to remain with me, and so I held him close and walked about the nursery aimlessly, finding my own peace in the motion as much as it seemed to sooth him as well.

He looked up at me as intensely as he had Christine and I wondered, not for the first time, how he would come to see me as he grew. I wanted to make him proud of his father – I wanted to be a man that was worthy of that significant title. As he lay in my arms I knew that he trusted me entirely to protect him, to do right by him. A child needed its parents to be their saviors, the ones that drove away every nightmare, that taught them humanity and compassion. It was our duty to protect our son from a world that oftentimes proven to be cold and unmerciful. For better or worse, Charles had been given a father with a dark past, someone that fought against a seemingly endless succession of demons through a painful maze of nearly incomprehensible emotions. In accepting that, I would never have believed that I would be given the privilege of raising a child. Once again I missed Estelle deeply at the thought, but that pain was dulled by the idea that I could honor both of my children by being the man that my family needed. I had to be someone that they deserved; for their sakes, I knew I had to lay the past to rest once and for all. I couldn't keep that singular idea from my mind.

I no longer wanted to hide – I realized that much when Charles was born. I had to actively make the decision to go down the path that would lead away from my own cowardice and from a lifetime of humanity's hatred. I took the mask from my face before consciously realizing what I was doing – what the gesture truly meant – placing it upon the bedside table before returning my gaze to Charles. I have to wonder if I had expected him to cry once he laid eyes upon the horror that was my disfigured face, for when he remained silent and even seemed to begin to doze I felt absurdly relieved. It was a ridiculous notion, of course – he barely knew who I was beyond his most basic instincts to seek protection from the owner of a voice familiar to him. And yet even knowing that, I was surprised at how grateful I was for his silence.

I smiled at him, making yet another vow into the silence of the night. I wouldn't hide from my son, no longer would I hide from Christine in the light of day – even as seemingly insurmountable as I knew that gesture would prove to be. But really, it no longer made sense to wear the mask within my own home. For so long had I striven for normalcy, even when my treacherous mind reeled at the notion that I was quite undeserving of such an uncomplicated life; there seemed no better or more sincere way to achieve that idea than to face the world as any other man. I knew I might never be able to venture past my front door without the mask as a barrier between myself and the harsh and hateful stares of society, but at the very least my son would never know that animosity. That much I could do for him at the start. The rest I would simply have to learn in time.

In many aspects of my life, it was finally time to move on – holding my son close to me as a tangible reminder of how truly fortunate I had become, I was grateful for the opportunity.


	28. Now and Forever

**Author's Note:** _Back again! And this time with not too much to say, other than to thank everyone for reading and reviewing. Your continued support means a lot to me; keep it up! :D This chapter was a lot of fun to write, especially exploring Erik as a daddy with all the shit he's been through. It could have gone a lot of ways, but I opted for some fluff for a bit. Until the end of the chapter...then it's just shocking. *dun dun dun* Sorry, had to do it. ;) Please, as always, do let me know what you think. We had a huge leap in time during this chapter, and I want to make sure the pacing was realistic and understandable, as well as the character development of these new parents and their little spawn. Not to much else to say, shockingly. I was just happy to get to update so fast. That never happens! I kid, I kid. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the Richard Marx song of the same name. It was definitely fitting, as the singer wrote the song for his own son. I suggest y'all head on over to YouTube and check out a lyric video; it's hella adorable, and parts of it remind me a lot of Daddy Erik. Anywhoodles, that's about it. Please remember to drop a review, but most importantly enjoy!_

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Chapter 28 – Now and Forever

Christine

The brand-new presence of a son in our lives proved to be a singularly incredible experience at the very outset – I often found myself reflecting upon just how much we were obliged to change within ourselves from the moment Charles was born. Meeting him face-to-face had granted us an entirely new perspective of him, unspoken yet undeniable; for even while I was ever-aware of him fluttering and wriggling below my heart during my pregnancy, to hold him in my arms and to continue to dote upon him thereafter somehow made him all the more substantial. No longer was he an intangible aspect of the future to be anticipated – he was _real_ , and he was ours. I was in awe of that fact – even as the days flowed into weeks it seemed somehow too momentous to believe what we had been given, and yet even so the truth remained. It was a precious understanding to attain. He required our utmost attention, and in turn we were given ample opportunity to understand the being that Erik and I had created through our own love for one another.

In the simplest terms, we did not have the time to worry over whether or not we would make capable parents – certainly not _after_ the baby was born, at any rate. Charles ensured that we occupied our time tending to his immediate needs while concurrently finding ourselves teetering on the brink of exhaustion as we sought to forge an acceptable routine. Indeed, it was nearly impossible to live in trepidation of the future when any and every spare moment was spent in favor of even the briefest attempts at rest. We spent the first days of his life simply getting to know him, allowing everything else to fall in place with time. In truth, he was a perfectly ordinary infant in every sense, prone to bouts of fussiness equaled with moments of perfect tranquility during which we would simply fawn over him before my pull toward sleep and Erik's need to work or compose would pull us from the baby's immediate presence. But the time we spent with our child proved to hold all of our attention, and it became quite easy to shut out the rest of the world.

In spite of his fears to the contrary and his constant insistence that he was quite ignorant of all things regarding raising a child, Erik made an exemplary father. He was attentive to his son from the first moment he held the baby in his arms. Oftentimes, he was the only one of the two of us that could lull the baby to sleep on the occasions when the child simply refused to give in to his weariness. On more than one occasion did Erik note that our son had taken after him in regards to a certain distaste for slumber, and he could only laugh good-naturedly when I would balk at the notion that I might never know a full night's rest again. But it was all too easy to forgive him for his teasing – he tended to the baby whenever possible. It seemed to me that he was encouraged by the privilege of doing so, that somehow in spending every spare moment with our son, more of his former confidence emerged. I found myself absently wondering how deeply his own troubled childhood had impacted his interpretation of fatherhood, that perhaps he could right even just a few of the wrongs in the world that he had witnessed for far too long by ensuring that his own son would never have to know of such horrors from the people he trusted the most. It was saddening to consider, but in that melancholy spirit I was able to find the redemption that Erik was offered as he took up his new responsibilities. I knew that he would never allow the past to repeat itself where our son was concerned – that he had made the decision to remain unmasked in the presence of Charles was evidence enough of that.

On the whole, we lived well, and it came to pass that we had found our peace once and for all. The haunting echoes of our past that we had once dreaded seemed far away and inconsequential. So long as we had our son to love and care for, we were whole. Charles had proven himself to be the balm that would sooth our long suffering, a Heaven-sent being that kept Estelle close to our hearts and the past far off while reminding us constantly to move forward – for the sake of our son, we simply had no choice, and no longer did that notion appear to us as daunting as it once had. We allowed ourselves to believe that we were capable, were determined to carry on for the sake of our children; in the end we could both be grateful in spite of so many tragedies we had been made to endure.

Beyond the first weeks of getting to know Charles, the autumn of that year brought many changes to our lives. It was near the end of November that I received letters from both Madame Giry and Meg proclaiming that Meg herself had discovered that she was expecting a child. I had responded lightheartedly that her timing was impeccable – Charles would surely need a little companion of his own as he grew older, and of course Madame Giry couldn't possibly limit her affections to only one grandchild. Meg's offspring and my own would certainly keep the matronly ballet mistress in high spirits as they grew to know and love her, and in turn I was certain that she would grant them all of the love and wisdom that she had imparted upon Meg and I during our youth – although something told me that she would be rather less stern in her approach to our children. Better to allow the parents to impart judgement while the grandmother enjoyed her time as the neutral party, after all. Meg's news gave me all the more reason to look forward to the years ahead – while she and her husband were properly settled in their home near Paris, I was certain that there would be ample opportunities to bring the families together in London, and once again I found myself with many occasions to look forward to as my life fell into the comfortable patterns that were being established with each passing day.

As the autumn gave way to the snowy haze of wintertime, I was pleasantly surprised to meet an older woman named Iva Kipling that had recently settled into our quiet neighborhood. Upon making her acquaintance, she informed me of the driving force which compelled her to settle in London. She had only recently taken in her two grandsons, Timothy and Victor – a toddler and a little one only just older than Charles, respectively – after their parents had taken ill and passed away quite suddenly. I felt a pang of sympathy in my heart for both the matron and her grandsons, for I understood quite well just how their tragedies had and would continue to impact them as they led their lives. But happily I found a friend in Iva, a truly good-natured woman with a stern, even temperament. In many ways, she reminded me of Madame Giry, and having Iva so close by while my own son was still so young granted me a great sense of comfort. Indeed, she had offered her assistance and advice on many occasions when Erik and I had found ourselves exhausted and entirely without answers as to how to sooth any given ailment of our baby, and I was immensely grateful to have met her. Moreover, I knew that the children were sure to get on well as they grew older, and it was with no small amount of motherly pride that I looked forward to minding the children as they played together.

Often I found myself daydreaming of all of the possibilities that the future held, as yet unseen but eagerly anticipated. At night, when Charles had gone to sleep for a time and after Erik had finished his work for the day, I would wonder aloud to him what kind of a person our son would grow to be.

Even in his early infancy he seemed to possess an intelligence that matched his father's – and his _stubbornness_ , to boot – and it occurred to me on more than one occasion how much the two were alike. Charles was bright, to be sure; as he grew older and more active it was clear that he was a most inquisitive little one. He was very tactile, enjoyed simply holding his rattle or feeling the surface of the piano as he explored his home. As he began to crawl and take his first steps, he would not rest until whatever new and wondrous thing he had discovered had been inspected to his own high standards. And as he so adored being held close to either of his parents, it came to pass that he was most soothed when we read fairytales to him or sang lullabies. Although as I observed him over time, I had to wonder if he simply enjoyed our company over the oral tradition. He seemed to crave affection, which we granted without a second thought – only to be rewarded when he was old enough with a bright smile and the breathy laugh that only infants seem to be able to put forth into the world.

He was the sunlight of our lives, our pride and joy, and even in my endless wonderings on his part, I was at least certain that he would grow up to be a good man. He would know kindness – Erik adamantly refused to raise a child among the prejudice and loathing that he himself had known for far too long. Charles would never know that kind of life, and I knew that in fending off as much pain as humanly possible, we could give our son a wonderful upbringing.

Yes, we lived quite well, and I found myself looking forward to each new day in ways that I hadn't experienced in a long time. The only true threat that befell our fragile hearts came about in February, once again on the night of Estelle's birthday.

Two years had passed since that awful night, and it was clear even all that time later that her death still impacted us deeply. But that year we were prepared for the crushing blow that had come about at our minds' betrayal – we thought of her more in the weeks preceding, much like the calmness of the world before a storm, yet even so we knew that immersing ourselves entirely in our grief once more simply could not be done. We knew that, with each passing year proving to be as difficult as the last, we could not allow ourselves to become lost in the icy grip of desolate memories and regret. Instead, we decided to observe the occasion in a stoic, reverent silence. We opted to light a candle for her, much like I had done for my father all those years ago in the chapel of the Opera Populaire; I whispered a prayer for my daughter with Erik by my side in a stony, reflective silence. I knew that he might not ever give voice to his prayers – if he even said them at all – but I could feel the love he gave to our lost daughter, the respect he granted to the life which had influenced us for so long even in its absence. Having him by my side as the solitary candle flickered softly before us gave me enough strength to wander through my returning turbulent emotions in order to mark the passing of another year in Estelle's absence without feeling compelled to break entirely once again.

From that night on we decided that the darkest February day would no longer haunt us as forcefully as it had the year before. We had to let our daughter rest, and it was imperative that we do so with the proper reverence and ample reflection. No more and no less. We had come too far to allow ourselves to take any more steps backward where she was concerned. Our son depended upon us to carry on – our hearts required it of us.

The birth of our second child was a blessing for us beyond compare. When once, long ago during the tumultuous days beneath the opera house and the subsequent need to find one another again, Erik and I had truly believed that we may never know the very life in which we found ourselves. Our desperate flight from Paris to escape from the gypsy's wrath, combined with the immensely tragic loss of our daughter, had in many ways reinforced the notion that normalcy and happiness might be beyond our grasp after all. But in the end, it seemed that we had only needed to be patient. Perhaps we would never know or understand the true reason behind our suffering, but I was sure that was how it was meant to be. I myself could come to remember that God worked in ways beyond any level of human comprehension, and even though Erik would not say whether or not he agreed entirely, he could concede to the fact that everything we knew about our lives simply had to come to pass in its own time. To have our son, a family of our own at last, was simply yet another part of that grander plan.

~~oOo~~

Erik

Under the cover of darkness with only the pale moonlight shining through the sheer curtains of our bedroom, I held Christine in my arms as we sought to become one. I was determined to feel every part of her with my lips, my hands, until we both achieved complete ecstasy in one another's fervent embrace. That had been my _intention_ , at any rate. Our child's demanding cries for care had interrupted us on more than one occasion in the two years since his birth, and this night was no different as the sound of his voice suddenly carried through the air from his bedroom. I groaned at his inopportune timing and rested my head on my wife's shoulder in a gesture of resignation.

"Your son is awake."

She laughed, "I'll go to him," she said before promising with a suggestive smile, "I'll be back soon, love."

I sighed but smiled back to her, feeling a longing for her in her absence but knowing that I could not blame the toddler for his need for care. He simply needed his mother that night, and he certainly hadn't woken or interrupted us nearly as often as he had when he was younger. It was hard to believe that so much time had gone by since those first weeks of his life, and not for the first time I realized with some regret that he wasn't _only_ a baby anymore. Time passed us by far too quickly for my taste. At one moment, Charles was still a newborn entirely helpless and completely dependent upon us. But then I would blink, and suddenly he had grown, had reached yet another milestone, constantly reminding me that he was growing up before my very eyes. I regarded the phenomenon with curious, inexperienced eyes – surely it wasn't possible for so many hours to escape us, to hurtle us forward so quickly.

Being a father occupied more of my time than I ever thought possible, yet even so I found that I would not have it any other way. He had changed me for the better, had captured my heart as enduringly as Christine had long ago, and perhaps even more so. She and I had created him together – had fought through the bonds of a life that had leveled more tragedy at us than we knew we could ever be capable of overcoming in order to bring him into our lives. Our love for one another had culminated in creating that existence. My family was the driving force that kept me from giving in to the worst parts of myself – I wouldn't allow it. Charles had not asked to be given _me_ as a father, and I would be damned if I did anything to be less than he deserved, just as I had promised long ago never to be less of a husband than my wife deserved. Charles was a constant reminder of those vows.

And perhaps that was for the best; he had me wrapped around his finger, and as such I was compelled to be that much more conscious of myself. We were entirely enamored with him, with the very idea of the life held within his soul, and it was an experience entirely new to me. If Christine was the light of my life, then surely he was the very air which sustained me. Having the both of them near to me gave me a sense of assurance that, in my youth, I would have dismissed as utter nonsense and certainly nothing to be counted upon as permanent. I had never known what it meant to be a part of a family, but when I found myself immersed in just that, I couldn't say that I minded the bout of terror I felt occasionally at the new responsibilities presented to me. It was only on seldom occasions that I experienced that all-too familiar and overwhelming sensation of restlessness and disquietude, and even then I felt more confident in the fact that it would pass. It seemed that I no longer lived in fear of myself. When Christine and I had married, I had considered myself very fortunate indeed; when Charles was born, I was absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude.

I certainly had very little idea of how to actually go about raising a child – only the most basic ideals seemed prevalent in my mind, the idea that I was the provider and the giver of wisdom and comfort when the time came that my son might need me. Beyond that, I must admit that I was lost. But even so, Charles didn't seem to mind. As an infant, he needed only for us to keep him safe, to tend to him and to love him. As he grew and his personality traits became more apparent, he simply wanted our company and attention. It was simple enough. But in time I came to truly understand that he was a person, and as such he quickly grew to be a most unique person indeed.

I was quite certain that my son was incredibly intelligent; no one would convince me otherwise. He observed his world with bright and inquisitive eyes. When he became ambulatory, his curiosity more often than not got the best of him, and he was eager to discover absolutely everything within his reach. Like any child his age, he was prone to bouts of petulance and defiance, but on the whole he had an easy manner about him, much like his mother, and he was easily appeased with the prospect of any new activity presented to him. He had to be a part of the world around him – he simply wouldn't have it any other way. We talked to him almost constantly, whether prattling on nonsensically in order to encourage his vocalization or to explain basic concepts to him, and he took in every word as any disciplined scholar. I was certain that he owned a keen intellect. Yet oddly enough, he was slow to begin talking. We spoke both French and English to him, hoping to encourage him to be able to communicate well with the people around him; but in spite of the near-constant availability of spoken words, he remained silent for the longest time, opting instead, it seemed, to content himself in quiet observation. Christine was an absolute wreck of nerves with each passing day of silence on his part – she had convinced herself that she had done something wrong, and she remained fearful that she had somehow stunted our son. But before long, once his first words passed his lips, he proved to be rather talkative with those familiar to him – he was quite articulate indeed, and I had all the more proof that my son was the owner of a strong mind.

I couldn't have been more proud to relay this fact to Madame Giry in person when she, Meg, and Giles had made the journey to reunite our families just before Charles' third birthday. We had corresponded often with news of our son, of course, but I was glad for the opportunity for our extended family members to see our child's development for themselves. They had precious little time to spare away from their daily lives, and their visit was eagerly anticipated; even I couldn't even say that I minded the relatively excess number of visitors within our home if it brought my wife even the smallest measure of joy. Meg and Giles had their own daughter, Sylvia, in tow, and while Christine and Meg fawned over the little girl, I spoke to Madame Giry about my son with barely reined in pride. She could only shake her head and laugh at my display, but even so I was more than happy to give her every detail of my son's life, if only for the fact that he was _mine_ , and I wanted nothing more than to share that singular fact with someone as motherly as Madame – someone that could absolutely understand my sentiments.

During that visit, Christine had introduced Vera to Meg, and the three happily occupied themselves with the care of the children. I was surprisingly content to spend my time with Giles – quite similar to me, he was a rather reserved man, and much to my relief he did not pry for details about what lie beneath the mask. Madame Giry and Meg had prepared him at the outset of their journey for my extreme reluctance to answer questions about the truth behind the object, and as he knew nothing of my connection to the disaster at the opera house, he easily believed the story that I had suffered a workplace accident and left it at that. That fact alone had immediately earned him my acceptance. And so, we could talk easily about our respective trades and be content in one another's presence. At one point during the visit, Meg announced that she was sure that her little Sylvia would someday marry my son, and her husband and I could only sigh and humor her in her dreams of grandeur. A part of me felt a certain pity for Giles – he had chosen a wife with a formidable, dominant personality, a stark difference from his own reserved demeanor. But even so, they seemed otherwise entirely devoted to each other, and on the whole our families got on well together as a result of their light mannerisms.

When our guests had departed for the evening, Christine and I spent our time together preparing Charles for bed. She was holding him close and talking to him in hushed towns in an effort to calm him after his most eventful day.

"That's right, Charlie, you rest now," she whispered, "I know you're very sleepy."

"What did you call him?" I asked, reaching out to have her pass him to me as I eyed her with curiosity at her unfamiliar address to our son.

" _Charlie_. Vera calls him that, did you know? It's a…" she paused, trying to remember the translation, "It's a nickname."

"It's not his given name," I said warily, unused to such informality regarding our son.

"No, but it's an endearment. And besides," she admonished gently, "There's no need to be so serious with him all the time."

"What do _you_ think, little one?" I asked Charles; he looked up at me and laughed, entirely ignorant of the nature of that strange controversy which surrounded him, but made no other sign that he understood me in the least. Still, Christine took his easy expression as an assent on his part.

"I don't think he minds at all."

I sighed, accepting my defeat as I spoke directly to my son once more, "Alright, Charlie. It appears that I've been outnumbered."

I laid him down in his bed before Christine fussed over tucking his blankets securely around him. He resisted his weariness at first, and I wasn't surprised. It often took him time to settle down before he succumbed to sleep. I was preparing to turn down the lamp when he called out, "I love you!"

"Goodnight," I whispered, smiling even while reminding him to keep his own voice low, "I love you, too."

Christine kissed him, and we left him alone for the night, both absently wondering how long it would be before he would escape the confines of his bedroom in a futile attempt to see our household under the cover of darkness. We always inevitably caught him attempting to return to his tin soldiers or choosing a book that he hoped we would read to him, and the process of settling him down to rest would begin all over again. That particular occasion was only one of many that left us with a feeling of lightheartedness that only our son – our family – could bring about in us. And even while I was unsure that night about the necessity of calling our child by any other name – as absurd as the notion seemed – I had to admit that I could grow to be fond of the endearment. Such joviality was still somewhat foreign to me, even all those years later, but it seemed that I truly had no choice but to embrace what my life had become. It was far better than the alternative that I had once been certain would be my fate.

~~oOo~~

Charles was nearly four years old when he had taken to walking with me into the city on the days when I had to take designs in for presentation and review.

I had grown to be rather successful and even respected in my trade over the years – enjoyed the relative novelty of making an honest living in comparison with my former occupation – and as such I was better able to work within my own parameters. When at the beginning of my time as an architect in London, my request to work from my home had been met with some hesitance – even thinly veiled annoyance – and it was only my talent in the craft that had granted me that request. As time went on and I continued to prove myself time and time again, I was offered still more respect regarding my need for privacy. The thought of having to work in an office surrounded by apprentices and overbearing overseers was not appealing in the least – beyond the constant presence of other people, I knew that any modicum of creativity I could have achieved in such an environment would have suffered greatly. And so it was with no small amount of relief that I worked under my own terms, only having to venture into my place of employment when it was absolutely required of me.

But even so, I was ever-reluctant to venture out into the city – I was simply resigned to the fact that perhaps I would never grow accustomed to immersing myself within the folds of society. As I walked, I was more often than not given second glances, eyed with suspicion at my curious façade, and I dreaded the journey each and every time. I would often find myself feeling that old sense of nervousness and an ardent need for self-preservation, as if I had to be constantly prepared for scorn and violence as I had so many times before. But on some level, the citizens of London which regularly made their way into the streets had grown used to my occasional appearance, and many of Christine's fellow parishioners knew of her husband's so-called eccentricities, and I was grateful for at least that much familiarity on their parts. As far as they were concerned, Paris' loathsome Phantom of the Opera did not exist – I did not have to hide away in fear of capture, and with time I realized that I could go about my business without the constant fear of attack. And so, knowing that, with time I felt that it would be safe enough to allow Charles to accompany me on those excursions. His presence by my side made the experience exceedingly more tolerable, and we often found ourselves lingering in the city in order to simply be in one another's company.

On one such occasion, we were making our way home when his attention was captured by a lone violinist performing in Larwin Square, and my child all but begged me to take him closer to the attraction. I assented, knowing that we had no real reason to return home immediately and wanting to further encourage his fledgling interest in music. His curiosity was satisfied only briefly when yet another part of the world around him grabbed his attention. I chuckled at the way his eyes lit up as he looked all around him, as if seeing that particular part of the city for the first time. I had taken him up in my arms as the crowds increased around us, and from his higher vantage point he was able to see the docks of the shipyard and the glistening sea beyond.

"I see the water!" he exclaimed, "Can we look?"

I hesitated for a moment.

We had certainly been to Larwin Square dozens of times, but I never intentionally led us that close to the docks before that day – to those docks which held nothing but painful and unpleasant memories in my mind. The last time I had set foot there had been the night that Vito had engaged in his brutal attack against myself and Christine, wanting only to exact his revenge. I remembered the fear I felt when she came home bleeding, begging me to stay with her and remain safe – I remembered what exactly had compelled me to act in spite of her pleas, the news of her first pregnancy and the promise of a family that I was absolutely determined to protect. My bones had been broken viciously, and more than once I had nearly lost the fight for my life against my pursuer, but in the end it was I that had taken a life. The fact that I was relieved that blood had been spilled would be something that haunted me, made me question my ability and right to raise a child, and from that point on the nagging doubt had eaten away at me. I wasn't sure how to overcome the horrors that Vito had imparted upon my life from the very moment he entered it. Standing in Larwin Square once again served as a bitter reminder of the darkness that had defined me for so long, and I had to suppress a shudder at the onslaught of memories. That life seemed so far removed from what I had come to know as I held my son in my arms, it didn't seem possible that I was remembering myself in that place. I felt like an entirely different person than the man I knew that night so many years ago.

I took a deep breath, briefly considering refusing my child's request in favor of fleeing to the relative safety of our home; but the sun was high and the air was clear all the way to the horizon, and perhaps that would be enough to drive a way the ghosts whose wails echoed with a past that I wanted nothing more than to forget entirely. In truth, we were entirely safe even among the masses. Moreover, it didn't make any sense to deny his innocent request – he knew nothing of the reason behind my discomfort. I nodded and walked toward the railings.

"Do you like it here, Charlie?" I asked, holding him carefully as he peered out over the water.

He nodded enthusiastically, "What's out there?" he asked, pointing toward the route that led back his parents' homeland.

"France, far away from here," I replied, "Do you remember? That's where Sylvia lives. Mama and I lived there as well."

"Did _I_ live there?"

"No, that was long before you were born."

"When are we going back?" he asked after a moment.

I laughed, "Someday, perhaps."

"Not now?"

I smiled, quite thoroughly amused, and shook my head, "No, now we're going home."

" _Right_ now?" he asked despairingly.

"In a moment, yes, when we're through here."

He sighed, but continued, "But we _can_ go France, can't we?"

" _Yes_ , if you wish, we'll go one day," I assured him, relieved when he seemed to take my words to heart at last.

So long as he was assured that he would be granted the adventure promised him, he could allow himself to move on to other objects of his interest. I wasn't sure if and when the day might come that we three might actually make the pilgrimage to France – I knew that we most certainly couldn't go to Paris, at the very least – but if my son was determined to see other parts of the world, then perhaps I could convince myself with time to assent to his innocent wanderlust. I smiled inwardly at the thought, ever-entranced by his view of the world. We should all be so lucky to have his singular sense of wonder.

~~oOo~~

The same scenario occurred nearly every day, sometimes even down to the last detail. We would gather for breakfast, but Charles seemed to be determined to do everything in his power to delay his meal, seeming to think instead that there were _far_ more important things to be done with his precious time. It was entirely my fault, of course – I was the same way, often skipping meals altogether in favor of working when the proper inspiration struck me. Charles had inherited the majority of my bad habits, and not eating when he thought it benefited him was one of them. I freely admitted that I hadn't set a good example for him, and aimed to correct the behavior. It had been my intention to take meals in the dining room like any other civilized man in an attempt to instill better manners in him, but for all my efforts I seemed only to inspire in him a need to talk while we sat. I simply had to wait for the onslaught of questions and near-constant chatter to begin.

"We're minding the boys today," Christine's voice came through my thoughts as I sat before the table reading an architectural journal, thoroughly annoyed that such an absolute imbecile had been allowed to publish his work. I had meant to continue reading in the hopes that the words before me would begin to form at least one coherent thought, but when that didn't happen, I was admittedly grateful for the distraction that Christine presented.

" _We_ are?" I asked pointedly, knowing that she was referring to Timothy and Victor. I didn't mind their presence in my home. They had grown up with Charles as Iva had proven to be a regular figure in our lives, and they were well-behaved, to be sure – Iva had most assuredly seen to that. But even so, they were still young children; the thought of the neighbor boys and my own son being left, for the most part, to their own devices filled me with dread at the prospect of their company. The noise alone would most likely ensure that I would get very little work done, and the necessity and unpleasantness of wearing my mask while they visited was an unwelcomed truth.

She laughed, "I will be taking them into the garden. You may while away in your office, if you must," I scoffed before she continued, "Would you like tea?"

"Please," I responded emphatically before she kissed me in parting. I turned my attention to the child beside me, "Do you know what this is?" I asked my son, pointing to a figure on the page in a stubborn need to prove that even my young son would make a more credible architect than the one writing for the journal.

He looked, then responded confidently, "A baluster."

"Very good."

"Daddy, what's my middle name?" Charles asked from his seat.

I laughed at the title – _daddy_ was a term he learned from his English-speaking friends, and while I was still wholly unused to that form of address, I didn't reprimand it for using it. He often switched between speaking French and English, and I wasn't surprised at the different vernaculars he opted to use at any given moment.

"Gustave, for your grandfather," I said, "Why aren't you eating your breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't had a bite," I reminded him, "So eat."

"But, wait," he said in a rush, "What's Estelle's middle name?"

"Amelia," I responded with a distant sadness, although a part of me was proud that he had remembered the sister that he had only known through stories.

"What's _your_ middle name?"

"I don't have one. Eat."

"Everyone has one," he said matter-of-factly.

" _Charles_ ," I said in a warning tone, leaving no more room for discussion. I could only indulge him in his need for conversation for so long, but in the end I wouldn't have him going hungry. He sighed and obediently took a bite of the food before him. But it wasn't long before his attention wandered again.

"What is our _last_ name?"

I sighed, but humored him nonetheless, "Lennox. You know that."

"What's Miss Vera's last name?"

"Reynolds," I replied absently, attempting to continue on with my reading until the moment came when I would have to be more stern with my son once more.

"I'm full," he announced confidently.

"No, you're not."

" _You're_ not eating," he observed defiantly.

I sighed, beginning to lose my patience, "Charlie, do you want to see your friends today?"

"Yes," he responded eagerly.

"Then eat your breakfast."

He obeyed yet again, and by the time Christine returned with the tea she had just prepared and had settled down beside me, I noticed the child's wandering attention once more. I couldn't show it in his presence, but even when my patience had been worn thin by my son's stubbornness, the entire situation was utterly amusing to me. Admittedly I found that I looked forward to breakfast time and the subsequent battles it brought forth in us. Charles had a way about him that was all too endearing, but even so I knew that it was imperative that I remain stern with him, even if it was only half-heartedly so on my part. Before long, the child finished his meal, albeit grudgingly so, and asked to be excused as he had been taught. When we granted his request, he was out of the room in a flash. When I heard his footsteps enthusiastically bounding up the staircase, I could only assume that he was preparing some new trinket or game to offer his friends upon their arrival.

"Your son is going to be the death of me," I informed Christine when he was out of earshot.

" _Our_ son is simply too much like his father," she retorted, smiling even as she teased.

I changed the subject quickly, "Will Iva look after him tomorrow night?"

"Yes, she's looking forward to having him. Will we be gone late?"

"No later than usual," I said with a wry smile.

We had been season ticket holders at the Royal Opera House for quite some time, since Charles had been old enough to be left for such a long period with either Iva or Vera. We hadn't attended for much of the current season, simply for the fact that we had been utterly preoccupied with various other aspects of our lives, and we were both anxious to immerse ourselves in the theatre and its music. It had been far too long since our last excursion, and although Christine and I practiced our music together within our own home, we felt in equal measure that it would be a welcomed change to simply sit back and enjoy one another's company while our beloved music surrounded us. But finally the opportunity had been presented to us, and we looked forward to the experience. Although I was not quite yet entirely fond of remaining in public for so long, I did so knowing that it brought Christine joy to be near the stage again, even if she wasn't the one appearing before the adoring audience.

The following evening, secured in our box, we waited in a companionable silence for the house lights to turn down and the performance to begin. I looked over at Christine as she read through the program, rendered breathless by the person that had been by my side for so long. I didn't know it was possible to fall in love with someone all over again day after day, and yet she had proven to inspire that love in me endlessly. We were nearing our eighth year of marriage, and that singular fact alone was enough to leave me in absolute disbelief. As when Charles was still a baby, I couldn't believe that night in the opera house how quickly time had passed us by. Moreover, it was almost impossible to comprehend just how much peace I had felt in that time. I felt _alive_. I recalled our first days in London, I time when I was certain that I would never find it in myself to simply settle down and let my life unfold before me; I hadn't thought that I had deserved such a life. Yet as the years had gone by, as we fought through so many battles that would come to define us, I had taken on an entirely new perspective that had proven to change me significantly in the end. I realized then that it was all for the better. I was happy – _we_ were happy – and somehow I could not bring myself to doubt that the sensation was deserved in the end.

I reached out and took Christine's hand, suddenly overcome by my love for her; she smiled at me radiantly, a truly genuine gesture, and I counted myself lucky for my good fortune. The lights dimmed, the first strains of music coming forth into the air around us – music that had been the catalyst in the circumstances surrounding our first meeting. I wondered absently what might have become of us had we not been united all those years ago. But I quickly realized that I didn't want to think about it for too long – no alternative could ever compare to the life in which we found ourselves then.

When the show was over, we remained in our seats for a time to allow the crowds to dissipate. It was a habit – a need for distance and privacy – born long ago that I simply couldn't relinquish, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I had no qualms about it remaining. In the relative silence of our box high above the rest of the auditorium, we were given ample opportunity to speak of everything and nothing in hushed tones, husband and wife wanting nothing more than to steal kisses in the shadows and simply enjoy one another's company. No, I certainly didn't mind the wait.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight," she said at length.

"Thank _you_. It was good to be out. Did you enjoy the show?"

"I did," she responded brightly, "It was wonderful to hear the lead soprano, she's quite talented. We haven't been out in so long, I'm not sure if I recognize her."

"Do you miss it?" I asked after considering her words, "Performing?"

She thought for a moment before responding, "A part of me does, yes. I think that's to be expected, of course. I grew up in the theatre, and it was a wonderful experience."

"I still regret pulling you from that life, your opportunities," I said truthfully.

"Do not have any regrets, Erik. I wouldn't change what we've come to have with this life."

I paused before speaking again, "Would you ever consider singing again?"

She laughed, "Darling, I have far too much to occupy my time as it is."

I smiled, becoming lost in our fanciful conversation, "Now, yes. But Charlie is getting older. Perhaps in time it would be worth considering an audition."

"I might, someday," she conceded indulgently, "At any rate, right now I'm content to sing at home, and in church. But it's nice to dream."

"It's a worthy dream," I continued with a devilish grin, "I could think of a few things we could do in your dressing room," I said softly before pulling her closer to me and capturing her lips with my own.

We were entirely hidden from the rest of the house, and in knowing that I deepened the kiss in favor of allowing us to become enveloped in our passion for one another, in that tangible expression of our enduring devotion. We remained that way for quite some time, staying lost in a world of our own creation for far longer than was necessarily polite, but it was of little consequence to us then. It was far more favorable to remain in one another's embrace, in a place of music not unlike the palatial building in which we had fallen in love so long ago. What we had discussed might never come to pass – although I could admit that I didn't necessarily mind the thought of my wife returning to the limelight after being away from it for so long – but even so, the fact that we had allowed ourselves to think of such a future was entirely freeing. As far as we were concerned, there was no force in the world that could take those dreams from us.

~~oOo~~

I sat before the piano one cold morning in November the year just after we had celebrated our son's fifth birthday. I had only just coaxed the flames to life in the fireplace, and had to simply wait somewhat impatiently for the warmth to permeate the entire room. As time went on, I had increasingly more difficulty with aches and pains deep within my bones when the colder weather overtook the world. I had suffered through far too many fractured bones in my life, and even long after they healed they seemed determined to come back to haunt me. Perhaps the cold and dreary atmosphere that made up London was the worst place to have chosen to settle – its climate proved year after year to bring about my continued suffering. But I chose to simply endure the pain until the warmth allowed it to recede enough for me to move about without stiffness or discomfort; I had been through far worse. I opened the lid to the piano after taking a deep breath, already beginning to feel better by comparison.

Christine had left early that morning with Vera to assist in caring for an elderly member of their church that had fallen ill, and so Charles and I had the majority of the day to spend together. I had recently begun to teach him basic musicianship, and it seemed that he was faring rather well under my guidance. I was admittedly less stern with him than I had been as an instructor to his mother in the past, but I knew that change was due in no small part to the fact that Christine had been much older when I began her lessons – I didn't dare tarnish my son's view of learning by speaking to him too sharply. I didn't want to traumatize the poor fellow. He ran into the parlor when he heard me warming up, eagerly climbing upon the bench beside me and asking questions as inquisitively as always. True to character, he simply had to know _every_ answer possible before his curiosity would be satisfied. We worked well together. By then, he knew how to read music, where each note fell on the keyboard, and so in that spirit I opted to reinforce the fundamentals and gradually add more information with each new concept he mastered. That day, he would be given a review of the major chords.

"Find middle C," I instructed at length. When he found the correct key, I continued, "Very good. Now play the C Major chord."

"Like this?" he asked as he found the notes.

"Yes. Do you remember the chord progression?"

He paused thoughtfully before responding, "I think so. No, I do," he insisted, but played them too quickly. He hit more than one bad note in his attempt.

"Go slowly, like this," I played an example, "Don't rush through it when you practice."

He tried again, the following attempt hampered by clumsy little fingers.

"My hands are too small," he said despairingly.

I smiled, "Here," I said as I moved him to sit in my lap and put his hands over mine, "Try again."

I played the chord progression, and he laughed delightedly when I was able to coax the proper notes from the instrument. I transitioned into a very basic melody, eliciting still more laughter from him as he beamed proudly at the success of our combined efforts. Before long I eased us back into the lesson, and he complied with more patience than was usual for most other children his age. We continued on in this fashion for quite some time, lost in the repetition of instruction and practice. I almost hadn't noticed that someone had been knocking on the front door.

"Who is it?" Charles called out, sincerely expecting an answer.

"They can't hear you from here, Charlie. Shall we go see for ourselves?"

"Yes!" he cried out excitedly, likely assuming that his friends were calling to bring him outside.

I caught him off guard by hoisting him over my shoulder and carrying him from the room, his peals of laughter echoing in my study as I stopped briefly to dawn the mask before granting anyone entry into my home. I opened the front door prepared to dismiss my son to the company of his playfellows, but I was immediately aware that I had been mistaken in whom I had presumed had been calling. I stared at the figure before me for a moment, slowly lowering my son to the ground by my side and holding tightly to his small hand, before my suddenly racing thoughts caught up to me. A familiar face, one that I had not seen in nearly a decade, met my confusion with strangely haunted eyes, and I was more than taken aback by his unexpected presence. Although we had parted so long ago on civil terms, suddenly I wasn't sure how to react – that lack of preparedness left me feeling deeply unsettled, briefly resorting back to an old mindset which required me to constantly be required to act in anger and self-defense. Charles stood beside me in abject confusion, obviously somewhat unnerved by my sudden change in demeanor.

"Vicomte," I said more abruptly than intended.

Raoul de Chagney was the absolute last person I had expected to call upon us that day.

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 **Author's Note:** _Awwwwwwww shit. The fuck is going on now?_


	29. Yesterday and Days Before

**Author's Note:** _Finally back to work now that my laptop has been replaced! Thank you, Chromebook. Please forgive any formatting issues while I get used to this new contraption. I've edited the hell out of this to ensure that everything appears as it was meant to, but I'm also only human, currently bun-sitting, and am the mother of a toddler. Shit falls through the cracks sometimes. But anywhoodles, we should have more regular updates from now on. We've only got about 8 chapters left, so strap in, get ready for the shit-show, and enjoy the ride! I hope I'm not being too terribly cruel, what with all of these damn plot twists and all. *shifty eyes* Forgive me. ;) I have been worried about a significant lack of traffic for this, but for those that have stuck around, read, and reviewed, and encouraged me both here and on Tumblr, I would like to extend a very special thank you. You are all amazing and I'm so grateful for your support! Cookies all around! Also, I took some creative liberties with this chapter on certain things, so it is my hope that doing so will be realistic and enjoyable to y'all. This is another hella long chapter, but it could not be avoided. So please, let me know how it turned out. Was the pacing okay? Was everything believable even in its melodrama? I hope so! And I hope that Erik's...erm, characteristics toward the end are not too terribly out of left field. Remember, homeboy has a pretty debilitating anxiety disorder, and sudden change can be hindering to progress under the best of circumstances. Just sayin'. Again, do not be afraid to let me know, whether you sing my praises or give criticism. Just, please, be kind. Writers are timid creatures. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the CCR song "Have You Ever Seen the Rain." It's one of my favorites and, to me, reflects the mood of the events in this chapter. Welp, that's about it, I believe. Read, review, and enjoy! _

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Chapter 29 - Yesterday and Days Before

Raoul

I am a haunted man. For the first time in my life, I cannot find any meaning in my suffering, no way to justify or understand what has come to pass. I live with it daily; my life is not at all what I had once dreamed it would be. Years ago, I thought I understood what heartache truly felt like - I was determined that I was well-versed in loss, in longing. Acts of valor would be my saving grace, I was sure, and somehow I could nobly rise above such turmoil if only I was _good,_ if I always did what my purest instincts and best intentions told me was right. With that notion, I was absolutely sure that my own poor heart had been thoroughly shattered beyond repair at the hands of my childhood sweetheart and circumstances of the heart beyond our control. But even so, in the end I could be set free from that pain if I was patient. Time would be my greatest asset.

I was so very wrong, too utterly naive for my own good; it certainly was not breaking ties with Christine that had torn my heart in two - not in the way that I now understand that bleak sensation - and looking back I'd give anything to live in that relatively simpler time. It was a complicated affair of the heart, to be sure - those turbulent times trying to win Christine's affections and fearing Erik's hateful recourse in the ultimate battle of wills have forever been engraved in my memories. But after enduring what I have since we three last met, I find that I much prefer the simplicity of young love to the very real trials of loss and grief. I know true heartache now, and its unwavering presence has rendered me helpless to its cruel whims. To have my family and friends resent me, to feel as though I am drowning in my guilt is now my cross to bear, and nothing can change that - nothing can bring back those that I loved the most.

It's been eight years since Christine and I parted, nearly six since I was forced to say goodbye to Lorraine and Jean-Pierre, but it feels as though an entire lifetime has passed me by. Now, it would seem, I've been burdened with enough weight upon my shoulders to turn me into a bitter and lonesome man. I am no longer the hopeful youth I once was, and that simple truth mocks me endlessly.

I think of my past all the more now that I am obliged to make the journey to London, to a home to which I was not invited; yet my visit could very well mean the difference between life and death for one that I once loved and for another that I long ago grudgingly decided to think of as a friend of sorts. And all the while I wonder if I am brave enough to see this visit through to the end. For, it would seem, I am not the man I used to be - I hardly know myself anymore, and more than once I consider turning back. Honestly, I'm not even sure _what_ compels me to doubt my intentions. But every time that flitting thought of abandonment of my task occurs to me, I force myself to recall that day so long ago, just outside of Paris, when my foolish slip of the tongue exposed two people to their would-be executioner - if not only for the sake of friendship, I know that I am indebted to them for the fact that I had so inadvertently wronged them before. And so, I continue on, searching for figures from my past that likely haven't thought of me in years.

It was not a long journey to London, and if the people I sought still resided within the same house from which Christine's last letter had come, as I strongly suspected, then I would have no trouble finding them shortly upon my arrival. Indeed, I found the house itself with little difficulty. I hesitated before raising my hand to rap upon the door, hearing the faint sounds of a piano within. Was it the Phantom himself that played the music? Or Christine's child? Madame Giry never spoke in great deal of my former fiancee's life, only the most basic reassurances of her continued wellbeing, and I could only assume that the soprano and her husband had prospered. In turn I never pressed for details, opting instead to request of Madame that she grant me the same favor of discretion. I had no idea what I would find beyond the threshold of the house which seemed to loom before me more with each passing moment. I took a deep breath, gathered what I loosely considered to be the last dregs of my courage, and knocked loudly enough to disrupt the steady flow of melodies.

It was Erik that opened the door; I recognized the mask immediately, yet even so the man before me was starkly different than the one I knew so many years before.

When last I saw him, although he had calmed significantly since his time beneath the opera house, he steadfastly maintained an air of disquietude as he and Christine sought their freedom. I could see it in his eyes then, that fearful distrust with which he viewed the world and all who dwelled within it, and it seemed to me that such expressions would remain behind his eyes for the rest of his life. But upon seeing him again in London nearly a decade later, it was immediately clear to me that relocating and starting his life over had changed him significantly. He appeared calmer, initially - very nearly jovial as he held a laughing child in his arms. It wasn't until recognition dawned upon him at the abruptness of my visit that he appeared to bring his shields up once again. He seemed to speak my name cautiously as if he were regarding an ill omen. I could hardly blame him; I was hesitant to warn even Madame Giry of my impending arrival for fear of being followed. God only knew what Erik was thinking about my presence upon his doorstep. The little boy in his arms visibly held on to his father more tightly at the man's abrupt change in demeanor, and I immediately tried to rectify the situation for fear of causing the boy unnecessary distress.

"I apologize for calling upon you unannounced," I said quickly, "I will explain why I had to come if I am permitted, but for now suffice it to say that I had little choice in the matter. Is Christine here? I should like to speak with the two of you together."

Erik narrowed his eyes in suspicion before ultimately deciding to let my say my peace, stepping back and allowing my entry into the foyer as he said, "Come in, Christine should return soon. And no need to apologize, you simply caught me off guard. I thought you were the boys next door looking for my son."

At that I took a closer look at the boy who had by then been lowered to the floor and who held onto his father for strength while eyeing me with thinly veiled curiosity. He was very young, perhaps only four or five years old, but even for his age his eyes seemed bright and inquisitive. As he clung to his father's hand I could clearly see Christine in him - I saw her shyness mingled with her endearing need to put forth a brave face, and I nearly smiled at the similarities the two shared. Yet he only physically resembled her the smallest bit - his father clearly being favored for the dominance of appearance - and for a flitting moment I wondered if this is what Erik _should_ have looked like. Perhaps, if that were the case, he might have been granted a fairer chance in life; were that so, perhaps none of us would have followed the paths we had - ones seemingly chosen for us long before we became cognizant of them. Because in the end, it seemed that we truly had no choice in the matter, no say in regards to our own shared and separate fates. I had to wonder if I had wanted that to be true if only to lessen my deep sense of miserable responsibility, but quickly dismissed the notion. I was certainly not ready to confront my own demons even after so many years of harboring them, nor was it the place to do so while being a guest in another man's home. I shook my head and forced myself back into the present.

"Hello, young man," I said to the child softly, "I hope you'll forgive me for interrupting your morning activities."

When he made no response, Erik prompted him gently, "Remember your manners," then to me, "This is my son, Charles."

I stooped down to meet his eyes, "A pleasure to meet you, Charles. My name is Raoul."

"Hello, Raoul," the child said, shaking my offered hand in a grave and gentlemanly fashion before giggling to himself and making a hasty retreat back to his father's side.

Erik smiled at his son before turning back to me, "You know, we had been under the impression that you had chosen to remain in France in silence. Forgive me if you take this as rudeness, but Christine hasn't gotten a letter from you in _years_. Why did you come to England now, and without warning?"

"I hadn't meant to stop speaking to Christine entirely. There were some...unfortunate circumstances which rendered me silent," I admitted, "I'm afraid I would have remained so indefinitely without prompting. But things have changed quite unexpectedly, and I felt I had no choice but to come here immediately."

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" he asked with mingled curiosity and concern as he ushered me further into the house and into what appeared to be the parlor.

I shook my head, halting our progress as I took a letter from my pocket and handed it to my former rival, "It's not with me that the trouble lies. Here, this can't wait. You need to read this."

I lived rather like a recluse for many years when I was finally pulled from my self-imposed prison by an unexpected letter. I did not recognize the handwriting in the least, but the name of the signature's owner stood out starkly against all else, and for a time all I could bring myself to do was stare at those accursed symbols in horror and abject confusion.

Somehow, the gypsy Vito had found my whereabouts and wrote to me under no uncertain terms that he was still alive and once again sought out Christine and Erik - he sought his ultimate revenge. Initially, I thought the notion rather absurd, perhaps and insane and unreasonable joke, for I had long believed the man to be dead and gone - Christine had not given many details all those years ago, only noting that none of us needed to live in fear any longer, but her assurance was enough to quiet my mind. Even so, once I convinced myself of the idea that Vito might yet somehow still be alive, I was left wondering why the gypsy thought _I_ of all people would help him in his search. But it didn't take me long to realize that Vito was simply toying with me, aiming to mock us all. He needed not to locate them, but rather had unceremoniously recruited me to become a pawn in his game, a player whose role it was to simply assist him in unnerving the couple, warning them of his position in a sick attempt at a power play before ultimately attacking. In the end the underlying reasons of a madman mattered little to me once the gravity of the situation settled within my consciousness; no matter what compelled the man to reach out to me, I knew I had to warn his targets of his continued survival.

I made several inquiries into the lone gypsy's past, putting together the pieces of a puzzle whose entire image as yet remained a mystery to me. But when I received the details I sought, the answers became clear; I knew once and for all how the letter came to be in the first place and that the words within held no lies. Unnerved, I departed for London immediately.

Erik took the letter and read it, an unsettling combination of anger and confusion appearing in his eyes at the words before him, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Just what it says. Vito, it would seem, did not die as we had all believed. Unless you take this to be some kind of cruel farce."

He shook his head, confirming what I had learned back in Paris, "It's his handwriting. He had a passable acquaintance with an education, I don't doubt that he actually wrote it."

"Then you think this is real?"

"Yes. _Clearly_ he's alive. But I don't understand how. I had…" he paused, looking once again at the child whom returned his gaze with innocent curiosity, "Charlie, go upstairs."

"I want to stay," the boy replied insistently.

"Not this time. You may return when you're called."

"But Daddy - "

" - _Charles._ Do as you're told," Erik said sternly, then sighed, "When Mama comes home, you will be permitted downstairs. But I need you to give Raoul and I a chance to speak alone."

"Yes, sir," Charles said dutifully before making his way out of the room, accepting his defeat with more grace than most children his age. It was clear to me that he had been raised properly and in the kind of nurturing home that every child deserved - he obeyed his father respectfully, entirely without fear, even if his obedience had been accompanied by the traditional protests of childhood. I was ashamed when I suddenly realized that I had absently wondered if the former Opera Ghost had turned out to be a brute of a father, even after he displayed quite the opposite evidence from the moment I arrived. But even in my shame, I was admittedly glad to see that my terrible suspicions held no ground.

Erik waited until he was sure that we were alone before turning to me again, "When Christine wrote to you about Vito, she explained that he attacked her, didn't she?" I nodded, and he continued, "Did she tell you how he died? That night, I sought him out, and I killed him. I _shot_ him, for God's sake, I was sure he was dead. _How_ could he have survived that?"

I sighed before sharing with him what I had learned back in Paris. Sensing his disbelief and growing panic, I regretted having to strip away his last hopes that his past had not just returned to centre stage with a staggering force.

Vito had indeed been found with grave injuries, ones that _should_ have been fatal. But by a twisted stroke of luck in his favor, before he had a chance to bleed to death he was found by several migrant shipyard workers that had been clearing their campsite by the shore under the docks before the storm brought the tide too far into their midst. Policemen had already been hailed at the first sounds of gunfire, and when the officers arrived they recognized Vito as a rogue gypsy that had stolen from many citizens upon his arrival in London in order to make his way until he located his enemy. Apparently, he had long since been banished by his own people, and with no familial bonds and nowhere else to turn beyond his path to violent revenge, he was left without a soul to vouch for his character. His wounds were treated after his arrest, and after a time he was relocated back to Paris to serve a sentence for crimes committed before his departure weeks before. He was, from what I was told and had briefly witnessed myself, a violent and lustful man, and his crimes against humanity had not gone unnoticed before he crossed the sea. Officers of the law in both countries applauded themselves for their perceived brilliant stroke of good fortune at apprehending him, sent him to prison, and thought nothing more of him.

Just like we had.

There he remained until the war broke out, the siege impacting Paris the hardest. I remember that time well, often wondering if I should go and fight for the sake of recklessness if not simply to end it all, but in the end I held back. It would come to pass that I was grateful that I had chosen to remain indifferent to both sides. Traitors and prisoners of war alike were locked up to while away dreadfully as their fates closed in around them, and it wasn't long before the facilities were filled beyond capacity. Without resources in place to keep them at bay, the prisoners eventually were able to form an uprising of their own, winning their escape and venturing once again into the light of day. Many of them were justified in their freedom; the rest, as it happened, were better off rotting in jail - a fate wholly earned by many of them. Vito was among _that_ foul group, but as the war rounded to its close, he was paid little mind as he went into hiding, awaiting his opportunity to cross the borders unnoticed once again.

This much I had learned from the few city officials that still held me in their favorable regard, and I was grateful to have gleaned as much information as I had in a relatively short amount of time. It was imperative that I bring this new knowledge to the two people that would come to need it most. Erik and Christine had lived their lives entirely ignorant of the danger that waited in the wings at the hands of a violently unstable man, and I shuddered at the notion that had I hesitated in embarking upon my journey even by a day, I would have quite possibly allowed devastating and irreversible events to take place. Seeing for myself just how many lives were truly at stake, I was thankful that I had not chosen to wait any longer.

Erik listened intently as I spoke, but it grew clearer with each passing moment that he was seething by what he was learning. I knew it would be a crushing blow for him - for his family - and I was not surprised by his reaction.

"Where is he now?" he asked with forced evenness.

"I cannot say. I came here as soon as I confirmed that he was alive, and I don't know if I was followed. I don't think I was...Does he know where you live?"

"No, but I wouldn't put it past him to try and find out. God only knows what he'll do to access that information."

"People will get hurt," I observed flatly, disgusted by the means to which the gypsy would likely go in order to right his wrongly-perceived transgressions.

"They will, all by his hand," Erik responded bitterly before continuing with mounting anger, "And then he'll come after _my_ family. I can't give him the chance. I won't."

"What will you do?"

"Therein lies the problem. How can I confront him and guarantee making it out with my own life? He won't be taken down without a fight any more than I will. I need to - "

"Mama!"

Erik started at the sound of his son's voice, but composed himself quickly as the front door opened. Christine looked almost exactly as I remembered her, and I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia at the sight of my estranged friend. I had certainly missed her companionship as I let it slip from my grasp, but seeing her that day I was aware of just how great of a mistake I had made in abandoning my promise to help our camaraderie endure the test of time and distance. She was not immediately aware of our presence as we made our way once again from the parlor; rather, she kneeled with arms opened lovingly to embrace her child, smiling radiantly as only a doting mother can and kissing the boy as he chattered to her in greeting. She laughed as Charles spoke - it was clear that he often presented himself to her with such enthusiasm.

"My darling, I missed you all morning," she said, securing the child in her arms before standing upright again.

I hung back as Erik approached her, kissing her with a tender familiarity that made me ache for my own lost wife before he spoke in a low voice, "We need to talk."

"What's wrong?" she asked, furrowing her brow at her husband's demeanor.

"A friend is visiting!" Charles said proudly, wholly unaware of his parents' unease.

"A friend?"

"Hello, Christine," I said, approaching the family slowly.

"Raoul!" she gasped, taken aback for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to proceed, before reaching out to awkwardly embrace me with one arm as she maintained her son's balance on her other side, "You're _here_. After all this time, you're here in London. Is everything alright?"

"There is much to be discussed, I'm afraid," I said solemnly, knowing that Erik didn't want the child to hear what needed to be said.

She nodded, seeming to understand the need for my evasiveness even without knowing the origin of its necessity, before turning to the little one in her arms, "Charlie, why don't you go see Timothy and Victor."

"Not today," Erik cut in, "I don't want him leaving right now."

"May I go play the piano again?" the boy asked hopefully, seeming to know when to choose his battles.

"Yes, run along, dear," Christine replied, setting Charles down. His footsteps were eager as he made his way to the instrument, and with the parlor once again occupied by innocent ears, Erik led us to the dining room instead. I noted absently that the room was very near to the parlor, well within our sight. It was clear that he was growing more nervous by the moment regarding his family's safety.

"Erik, what's happening?" Christine demanded once we were settled once more.

He handed her the letter wordlessly and waited while she read, carefully gauging her reaction as I had toward his own. Her confusion and terror were evident the moment she began to comprehend the words before her, and not for the first time I regretted having to be the messenger that brought forth further suffering - a suffering that _should_ have been a memory. At her insistence, Erik relayed the information that I had given him as explanation for Vito's sudden and unexpected reentrance into their lives, remembering each detail as if doing so might be used as an oath or a talisman of protection for them - as if any misspoken detail would allow a disaster to befall the small family at any moment. Christine listened, but even so I could see the unmasked fright in her eyes - she didn't want to believe what she was hearing, even as the facts mounted against her denial.

"It would seem that he's been free for the last year or so," Erik concluded.

"But are we even sure this is him?" she turned to me, "Did you see him?"

"No, not directly," I said, "I only learned what I have after receiving this letter."

"Then how can we _know_?" she pressed.

"It's him," Erik said, "I'm certain, and I wouldn't take any chances even if I weren't."

"What does this mean?" she asked after a time, "What can we do?"

"I don't know yet." he responded, seeming to regret the words the moment he said them, "We have to react differently this time. It's imperative that this ends without sacrificing our family. I'm not putting you two in danger."

"This is why you didn't want Charlie to leave," she observed with dread.

"That's correct. We need to be careful until this is resolved."

She sighed and looked very near tears as Erik took her hand, and she was silent for a moment before turning to me and saying hopefully, "If he gave the letter to you, then that must mean he still doesn't know where to find us. He doesn't know exactly where we live."

"I believe so," I said slowly, measuring my words before continuing, "But I also think he simply means to get me involved for his own amusement. I've no way of knowing either way. Besides, this can only be your safe haven for so long. He knows you're in London from your last encounter, at the very least, and I doubt he has reason to believe that you've left since then."

"Our _only_ encounter was at Larwin Square," Erik pointed out almost absently.

"Then perhaps that's where he intends to find you again," I said, wondering if that knowledge could be an advantage over Vito's own plans. If he could be predicted, then perhaps he could be defeated once and for all. For the sake of the family before me, I certainly hoped so. Because the dreadful alternative was that the gypsy would simply bide his time, turning the whole of London upside down until he found the dwelling of his enemy. If this situation was truly meant to come to blows, then better it be on common ground - better there be witnesses and the potential for immediate assistance. Otherwise, I feared that the Lennox family might be cornered in their own home.

We spoke of just that for quite some time, all the while attempting to formulate even the smallest semblance of a measure of safety in the uncertain days ahead while the couple hesitantly came to terms with what the future might hold - with what the past had leveled at us all so unexpectedly. Fate was cruel indeed. Upon reflection, I felt like quite the outsider for my part. Erik and Christine were clearly beyond comfort at how badly and abruptly their lives had changed, and I made no attempt to calm them with useless, empty words - nothing I could have said would bring them peace, I was sure, and I wanted nothing I said to be seen as insincere. I opted instead to be as helpful as I possibly could, giving my opinions when solicited and offering suggestions when it seemed prudent to do so. Ultimately, I'm not so sure if I helped them at all - as time passed us by, it seemed that we had reached a standstill, no clear means to a safe outcome immediately in sight. By the end of the emotionally charged discussion, Erik clasped his hands together in front of him and resignedly rested his head upon them in frustration, clearly agitated but otherwise silent.

"Raoul, what made you decide to come all this way yourself?" Christine said after a brief period of silence, "You could have asked Madame Giry to write, or Meg and Giles."

"Would you have preferred that?" I asked hesitantly, wondering then if I had overstepped the unspoken boundaries of our long separation.

"No, of course not," she smiled reassuringly, "But I'm surprised that after years of silence, you appear with _this_ news. Yet there has been nothing else from you before this time."

"I felt that I owed it to you both to give you this information, this warning. I was the one that led Vito to London in the first place."

"That wasn't your fault. He would have found us eventually," Erik interjected, if not a bit impatiently, though his reminder did little to ease my conscience even after all the years that separated us from that fateful day.

"But even so," Christine continued, "it was still a shock to see you here today, no matter the reason. After so long, I had assumed that you simply had no longer desired my friendship."

"I do apologize for my silence, Christine," I said sincerely, noting the sadness in her eyes at her admission, "I truly didn't mean to be cruel, and I hope you will not view me as such. I did not want any misunderstandings between us. I was simply unwilling to speak to _anyone_ for quite a long time, you see."

"Why?" she asked gently, not knowing just how much pain she was causing me at her innocent request for understanding.

 _Why_ indeed.

Some months after parting ways with Christine and Erik after their own marriage and subsequent flight from Paris, I myself was engaged to be married. It was an arrangement set forth by my family, of course. I had not actively sought love at that time, really I had little interest in the phenomenon as a whole, but I dutifully met with the woman of equal noble descent at the wishes of our parents. They felt it was a good match, a sure way to secure the bonds of our families and to ensure that the Chagny line would continue on through the generations. While I was hesitant to begin with, I complied nonetheless, adhering to my stubborn sense of duty where my family was involved. I would not be _forced_ to marry, of course, but I was encouraged to get to know this woman in the hopes that the bonds of love could grow between us. Indeed, we got on well together with time, and I found that it was easy to give in to the urgings of my family. We were content, if not happy, and while I did not find myself madly in love with this young woman, I resignedly found myself in equal measure unable to say no to her.

That is, until I met Lorraine.

 _She_ was stunning, and she captured my heart irrevocably from the outset - truly she had proven to be someone that held the power to take my breath away in a manner for which I was wholly unprepared. I once thought myself to be madly in love with Christine, yet as I found myself falling more deeply in love with Lorraine with each passing day, I found that my young soprano's words from so long ago had rung true in the end. Ours was a childish love - lighthearted and fanciful, but completely lacking in the kind of devotion required to sustain a husband and wife. I was grateful to Christine then, knowing without a doubt that she had granted me an immeasurable favor by releasing the promise of her love from my mind. She gave me the chance to find the other half of my heart by simply being my dearest friend - by seeing to my best interests as well as her own. I counted myself in her debt as the months with Lorraine slipped by.

I saw her in secret, initially. She was not of nobility, and my family made it immediately clear that they disapproved of my choice in lovers. After the scandal with Christine and the Opera Ghost, my family was more than ready to dismiss my credibility when it came to knowing my own heart. They simply could no longer condone the idea of me setting off on my own, favoring instead to take the reins of my life in an attempt to harness even the smallest modicum of dignity for our family name. I could not have married Lorraine with their blessing; they were not willing to offer it and were adamantly in favor of me casting her aside to instead marry a woman of finer breeding. But I would have none of that. I had long since grown tired of the constant pandering, of the petty rules by which we were obliged to live our lives simply for the sake of an arbitrary title at the risk of offending our so-called betters. It made me sick, and to be told that I would once again have to sacrifice my own happiness and that of the woman I loved was the final act that compelled me to make my decision. At the risk of losing my title entirely, Lorraine and I eloped and left France for a time, returning to Paris only when we were sure that we could do so without fear of immediate reprisal.

It was there, of course, that bitterness and resentment imparted upon us by my family and peers. They made no secret of their opinions. The only one that stayed by my side was Marcus, and indeed to this day I count him as my closest friend and best ally. It came to pass that Lorraine and I would not have an easy life, but we managed, opting instead to enjoy our marriage and to make our way in the world. We were determined to rise above our seemingly hopeless situation, deciding then that we had been granted a far better life than others and should therefore be grateful and simply enjoy it. And so we did, and along the way we were overjoyed to learn that Lorraine was expecting a child. _My child_ \- I was thrilled by the notion, and with my devoted wife by my side, I eagerly awaited the day that I would become a father. I dreamed with my darling Lorraine of all that we would teach our child, of everything that we planned in order to give the precious child a magnificent life.

Our dreams were shattered the night my son was born.

While Lorraine had been granted an uncomplicated pregnancy, the birth itself had proven to be a waking nightmare. She suffered one complication after another, and in the end even the doctor could do nothing to save her or the infant. He cried only once before ultimately dying in his poor mother's arms, and she followed shortly after. I was utterly devastated by the unexpected losses of the two people that meant the most to me - I had never known such pain, and even with the years separating me from those terrible, nightmarish moments, I still feel its echoes with an almost violent intensity. I never could let it go. From then on, I was not sure how to exist - I wasn't even sure if I wanted to anymore.

Beyond Marcus, I had no one to turn to at that point in my life. My family had turned their backs on me, my friends had turned up their noses at my perceived lack of gratitude for my position, and I could do nothing to fight the scandal and rumors that surrounded me constantly. It was only that much worse after Lorraine and Jean-Pierre had passed, and I was rendered entirely helpless to my own plight. I didn't even have Christine to turn to any longer - I had received word from Madame Giry several months prior that Christine and Erik were expecting their first child, and I opted to remain silent for fear of overburdening them. With time, we lost contact entirely, but as it was I could not find it within myself to care any longer. Nothing mattered - everything I cherished was gone, and everything I knew to be good was a lie.

I sighed, recalling the darkest point of my life and answering with forced brevity for fear of breaking down entirely, "After I last wrote to you, I met someone. Her name was Lorraine, and although my family did not approve of my involvement with her, I truly did love her. We married and had a child, a son, but there were complications. They both died."

Christine was visibly shaken by my admission, and responded in a wavering voice, "Oh, Raoul, I'm so sorry," she cleared her throat before standing abruptly, "Excuse me, I need to go check on Charles."

She left the room quickly and Erik, keenly aware of his wife's abrupt change in demeanor, rose and followed immediately after her. I remained in my place, confused by her reaction but knowing it would be rude to follow uninvited. Something had flashed in her eyes - briefly yet unmistakably so - that made me suspect that there was a terrible story behind her hasty departure, and I was unsettled to realize entirely just how far we had fallen away from each other. She was my oldest friend, yet I knew nothing of why she had reacted to my words as badly as she had. Once more, I felt terribly guilty then, silently promising to somehow make up for all those lost years of friendship. I had wronged her more than I knew. Erik returned some time later and explained his wife's curious behavior.

"Christine asked me to apologize for her," he began, "She wasn't expecting your news."

"She seemed a great deal troubled by it," I prompted, mindful to remain respectful as I sought my answers.

He sighed, seeming to weigh his words before finally speaking the truth, "We lost a baby some years ago. Estelle," he explained, saying his daughter's name like a prayer, "She and your boy probably would have been around the same age, actually. Charles came along later. He was quite the surprise, and he's been a blessing to us. But some days are better than others as far as our daughter is concerned. Believe me when I say you have our sympathy."

"What happened to her?"

"It was an accident. Christine took a bad fall, and the baby was born too soon," he said succinctly, clearly as reluctant as I was to speak in great detail on the subject.

"Christine was hurt?" I asked in horror, disturbed by the very idea.

He nodded, "I nearly lost her as well. It was bad enough saying goodbye to Estelle. I can't imagine…" he paused, seeming to think better about whatever it was that he meant to say, "At any rate, I can understand your need for isolation. Christine and I gave in to that grief for a long time. We didn't escape from it quickly by any means."

"Is that why you wear that cross? For your daughter?" I asked, gesturing to the object in question. It had piqued my interest earlier that day - I hadn't taken Erik to be a religious man, and I wasn't so naive as to assume that even time and Christine's positive influence would change his beliefs quite so drastically. I considered him to be agnostic at best, and the presence of the golden cross was puzzling to say the least.

"Yes," he said simply, then, "What was your son's name?"

"Jean-Pierre," I responded after a moment's hesitation, but found I could say no more beyond that. The icy grip of remorse held fast to my heart at the mere mention of my precious child's name. It was a rarity for me to speak to anyone about the tragedies that had transpired so long ago, and it was clear that I was still not ready to give voice to my pain to anyone - evidently, even to someone whose experience of tragedy very nearly mirrored my own. I simply couldn't bring myself to speak on the subject of my departed - I wasn't sure I knew how. I was spared from continuing when Christine returned, more composed than when she fled the room.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I just - "

" - I understand," I smiled sadly, "Had I known, I would have spoken more tactfully."

"Oh, no," she said in a placating rush, "You did nothing wrong, and you had no way of knowing. As I said, we haven't spoken for quite some time," she paused before continuing softly, "But why didn't you tell me when it happened?"

"I didn't want to burden you," I admitted, "And yet, it seems we lived through similar hardships. I'm sorry we were unable to help one another."

"Perhaps we could have. But let's not speak of it any longer," she said kindly, sensing my unease and changing the subject quickly, "Can I get you anything while you're here? I can make us tea…"

"No, thank you," I sighed, feeling entirely exhausted by my short confrontation of my past. Moreover, I knew there was not much more that my presence could have afforded the couple as the November afternoon descended - they would surely have much more to discuss, and I felt that it was not my place to remain within their home as they did so. I rose from my chair and took Christine's hand in a friendly gesture, "I should take my leave for now. I can return tomorrow, if you'd like. In the meantime, if I can help you in any way with this, let me know. _Please_."

~~oOo~~

Erik

We were in Hell. After so many years of peace - of true happiness - after so long fighting against the darkness of my past, we were once again thrust into the folds of a horrifying phantasm. It felt too surreal to be anything short of a terrible nightmare. And yet I didn't wake.

The news of Vito's continued survival was so sudden that I found it nearly impossible to rein in my now-turbulent thoughts, my emotions once again becoming erratic as I fought to regain control. Once more I was a prisoner within my own life, unwillingly putting the ones I loved most at risk. My anger was beyond words - it seemed as though I could do nothing but dwell on those dark truths, could not form coherent thoughts in spite of my best efforts other than ones of abject bitterness. I had been granted a reprieve from the punishment of my sins for a time, but it would seem that it was not meant to last. I hated myself for setting such events into motion so long ago, but I hated Vito more. The darkness that held fast to his soul was worse than mine, long-sustained and enduring; I had never _wanted_ to be a monster, while he chose that path for himself quite willingly, clung to it like an emblem of pride, and that absolutely disgusted me. He would not let us go. I couldn't stop thinking of that fact alone - he would not relinquish his old over our lives, the power he once sought over me had transcended through time, and once again I was not the only victim of his driving madness. Christine, Charles, and I had lived happily for so long - it was nearly impossible to comprehend the looming danger that my small family so unexpectedly and unwillingly faced.

Giving in to the worst parts of myself for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was ultimately stunned into a disturbed silence by the time Raoul departed, only distantly aware of him giving Christine the address off his lodgings should we need to contact him before the morning. I vaguely understood that he promised to return the following day, but as it stood I took little comfort in his allegiance to us.

In the span of mere moments, on what should have been a day like any other, our lives had been turned upside down by someone long thought dead. I resented the gypsy for that, perhaps more so in those initial moments than anything else his continued existence had meant for us. By surviving, he had effectively threatened to strip away the happiness and safety that had been hard-won after a lifetime of suffering. I should have been free of him long ago - my wife and child should _never_ have been burdened with the repercussions of my desperate actions. In spite of the evidence presented to me, I couldn't understand how or why this was happening. I had killed Vito, I was certain of it. He was dead, goddammit he _was_ dead! In my mind's eye I saw him plunge into the turbulent waves on that dark afternoon so many years ago. It seemed impossible that he could have survived his wounds coupled with the frigid water - yet somehow I held in my hand a letter from him, written to convey that under no uncertain terms, he meant to finish what he started once and for all. And once again, it wasn't just my life that hung in the balance. So much more was at risk then.

As I heard Christine's voice from the foyer and Charles sighing in frustration as he played a sour note, I knew that I _had_ to protect them once again. They were my life - my existence would be meaningless without them, and they deserved far better than the darkness of my past that wouldn't relinquish its hold over me. I would walk through Hell and face the Devil himself before I allowed any harm to befall them. I'd give my very life for them if it came down to making that sacrifice. Of that, I was entirely certain. But even with my silent vow of protection, my heart wouldn't stop pounding with trepidation. I could not find peace.

I felt as if I was drowning, flayed alive all at once by a nearly debilitating sensation of fear and despair. I hadn't known that desperate and terrible feeling since before Charles was born. Although I was still prone to bouts of melancholy, the intensity had not been nearly as stifling over the years as it was the afternoon that Raoul came to us, and it was disarming to experience it again after living relatively peacefully for so long. It was as if the demons within me had been awakened forcefully, and they were _angry_. There was a thirst for vengeance within me that attacked from all sides, a visceral response to an immediate and as yet unseen danger. And in turn, I instantaneously felt that darkness threaten to overtake me once more. I wanted to scream in a fit of rage, to lash out until I was completely and utterly exhausted. I saw red, and it frightened me - I wasn't sure if or how I would react to the worst parts of me, but I soon found that I was trembling in a mighty attempt to simply control myself. I wanted nothing more than to fight against that despair. That was how my poor wife found me.

I heard Christine return to the dining room, but I could not meet her eyes as I asked bitterly, "How is it that some ghosts refuse to remain in the past?"

"Erik - "

" - This _cannot_ be happening," I yelled suddenly as I pounded a fist against the surface of the table. She attempted to approach me, to comfort me, but I halted her progress sharply, "Stay away. Just stay back," I snapped, then continued more evenly after allowing myself a moment to check my anger, " _Please_. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. Just calm down, Erik," she responded evenly, "Be calm."

She sat beside me as she spoke and took my hand before running her thumb over my fingers in a soothing gesture. I watched as she rhythmically crossed over my wedding band, allowing myself to become lost in the repetitive motion in lieu of giving in to the temptation of continuing in my rage. She was obviously shaken by my drastic regression in behavior but she soldiered on nonetheless, and after a few moments of remaining almost entirely still together beyond the connection of our hands, I felt able enough to continue with some semblance of clarity within my mind.

"I don't understand," I whispered, "I thought this was over long ago."

She sighed, "We all did."

"I should have been more careful," I said ruefully, "How could I have failed? Vito was right there in front of me, I was sure he was dead."

"You had no way of knowing that he survived. You were badly injured, and you had to escape so quickly. It wasn't as simple as you want to believe. This isn't your fault."

I shook my head, "I don't know that you can convince me."

She looked at me sadly, but seemed to decide against speaking any more futile words of comfort before continuing, "But what do we do now?"

I thought for a moment before speaking, "I have to try to find him, to finally end this. In the meantime, I'm not so sure it's safe here anymore."

"What does _that_ mean?" she asked, her eyes widening once again in horror. Its presence in her expression broke my heart - we should have been long past such fear.

"It means we would be wise to consider relocating for a time, perhaps further into the city. I don't want to give him a reason to come here. Not with Iva and the boys, or Vera. Everyone is so nearby. We know too many people now, and I won't allow anyone else to be at risk because of me."

"But will we be safer in the city?"

"I hope so. He'll be hesitant to go into crowds, to have witnesses," I reasoned, unsure of whether I was trying to convince Christine or myself of the truth in my words, "Even at Larwin Square he operated under seclusion," I sighed, "This is all I have right now, Christine. I don't know how else to keep you and Charlie safe."

"I trust your judgement," she said after a moment's consideration, "But promise me that _you'll_ be safe. Don't forget your own wellbeing as you try to protect us. I don't want a confrontation between you and Vito again."

"I don't know that it can be avoided, darling," I said gently.

"Find a way, there _must_ be another way to apprehend him," she insisted, taking ahold of both of my hands firmly as she pled, "End this somehow, but don't put yourself in danger again. _Do not_ confront him, I beg of you. I can't lose you, Erik."

I intended to counter her request, but at that moment Charles entered the room, and I couldn't go into detail in front of him. I would not make him savvy to what was happening outside his immediate world of innocence - I _refused_ to take that light from him. Knowing for himself what his parents did for his sake would do nothing to keep him safe from the present danger - even for one as intelligent as him, he was too young to protect himself with knowledge in the same sense that Christine and I could. Moreover, the less he knew about the horrors of the world - whether they prove to be far off or imminent - the better. It was with a bitter resignation that I realized that he would grow to understand those truths himself in time, but I was not going to speed up that process for him if I could avoid it. I would not break my son's heart that way. He approached Christine and reached his arms out to her, silently requesting to be held as his eyes betrayed his tiredness. She held him close to her as if fearing that he would disappear, and in my own heart I felt her agony tenfold. The sight of my beloved wife and child before me was all I needed to strengthen my resolve in those moments.

I forced her to meet my gaze once again as I said emphatically, "You can't lose me, but I _won't_ lose you. I'll find a way to end this, but don't think for a moment that I wouldn't do _anything_ necessary to protect you both in the meantime."

If she meant to respond, I wouldn't have known - I couldn't give her the chance for fear that her words would break me entirely. I stood in a rushed haze and left the room as soon as I finished speaking. I would protect them, but as the night began to surround us I was completely at a loss of how to do so, and that frightened me badly. Suddenly, as I finally began to completely understand the first tremors of my life falling down around me, I felt once more as if I was drowning.


	30. Get Out Alive

**Author's Note:** _Man, it's great to feel productive. Finally I'm getting back to a far better rate for writing and editing! Which is good, because some crazy shit is going to happen as this phic rounds to a close. We've got about 7 chapters left now, so stick around, we're not done yet! Thank you again to everyone that's read and reviewed. Your support means a lot to me, and I look forward to writing more in the future. A lot happens in this chapter, and I hope that the action and melodrama was written as well as I saw it in my mind. Please let me know if the realism and pacing is satisfactory, especially at this pivotal point in the story. Also, I took another creative liberty regarding a certain molotov cocktail, which was not invented until the 1930s. But if Andrew Lloyd Webber can fuck with timelines, then damn it so will I! Other than that little point, I hope to have kept many details as true to life as possible. You'll know what I mean when you read. ;) Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the Three Days Grace song of the same name. I encourage y'all to check out a lyric video for it on YouTube as the lyrics and overall mood of this song reflect the events in this chapter very much in my eyes. Anywhoodles, I do believe that is all. Chapter 31 is written and being edited right now, so keep an eye out for the next update in the coming days. Other than that, just read, review, and enjoy! _

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Chapter 30 - Get Out Alive

Erik

Christine and I barely spoke for the remainder of that night, instead maintaining a forced civility with one another for the sake of our son. It was easily agreed upon that we would not do or say anything that might alarm him, and on the whole we were successful in our unfortunate endeavor - even as doing so was much to our shared dismay. Being rendered unable and unwilling to voice our thoughts to one another was torture, but as it stood we simply couldn't bring ourselves to give voice to our very real fears of a future fraught with trials that as yet remained unseen. Privately, Christine and I had been steadfastly overwhelmed by the uncertainty of the situation we once again faced - it was nearly impossible to comprehend how badly we had been set off course by Vito's lingering and renewed threats, and as such we were obliged to walk the balance between surrendering to our panic or stilling our frantic hearts effectively enough to find a solution that would bring about our escape once again. In those first tentative hours, finding freedom once more seemed impossible. The only positive outcome of our efforts of silence was that when at last we put our son to bed for the evening, he was indeed entirely ignorant of our erratic emotions, and we were determined that he would remain so.

The semblance of a truce between us came about long past midnight. The moon had risen high above our quiet neighborhood by the time we finally managed to worry ourselves into exhaustion, and with that we wordlessly agreed to finally put our unease aside for each other's benefit. Our quarrel was not with one another, and we would be wise to be mindful of that. For my part, I was growing increasingly more consumed by a deep sense of guilt with each passing hour that separated us from Raoul's grim announcement, and with that guilt came a restless agitation with which I was all too familiar. There was a point when I was resigned to the fact that I very likely would not sleep that night, opting instead to give myself to aimless wandering and deconstructive reflection as I had so often been wont to do at the beginning of our marriage. I felt as though I was quickly slipping back into my former consciousness, to that debilitating melancholy long-abandoned over the years, and the echoes of the man I once was and loathed so strongly seemed to loom in the wings, compelling me to give in to the call of that despair. Christine must have recognized this, for when she found me hunched over my drafting table working in a futile effort to calm myself even the smallest bit, she took my hands and guided me to the relative calm of our bedroom instead.

I was immensely grateful for her gesture - I slept restlessly, but I _did_ sleep, and in achieving those fleeting hours of rest, I opened my eyes the following morning with far more clarity of mind. I certainly did not feel peaceful, but at any rate I was sure that I could at least face the day and gain even the smallest modicum of effectiveness regarding how we decided to face our conflict. I awoke with Christine in my arms, proof that we had clung to one another in the night in an unconscious gesture on either part to fend off the nightmares we surely both experienced. She was still asleep when I woke up, and I made no move to rouse her from her slumber. She had been my strength the night before - in the light of day, it was my duty to return that to her in equal measure. I refused to let the darkness of my past harm her further, even if I could do so with whispered words of comfort and soothing gestures only. When she finally did open her eyes to meet mine - as memories from the previous day seemed to make their way to the forefront of her mind - she did not speak, but rather reached out and took my hand more firmly in her own. I knew that, no matter what happened from then on, we would move forward together. I would never allow myself to forget that - I fought partly for her and the life she had given me in her kindness.

Raoul arrived later that morning as promised, but on the whole it was an uneventful and nearly unproductive visit. As the previous afternoon's discussion brought us no answers regarding how to proceed where Vito was concerned, so did the dawning of a new day leave us uncertain and entirely without clarity. I was frustrated and Christine was terrified, and once more I took little comfort in having her childhood friend as an ally. Oh, I could admit that I appreciated his involvement, of course. I did not hold him responsible for Vito locating us in London all those years ago - despite the vicomte's numerous protests to the contrary - and I felt that having the perspective of someone else at our disposal could only be beneficial at that point. But even so, it seemed to me for all the world that I could have a dozen men in my camp and still live in fear of the gypsy until I was sure once and for all that he had met with his death, for I knew that only death would herald his forfeit. Otherwise, he would never surrender his vendetta.

"You mean to seek him out again, don't you?" Raoul inquired after a time.

"Yes," I nodded slowly, "Perhaps more strategically than before, but I see no other way."

"This conflict must _cease_ ," Christine began, weighing her words before continuing determinedly, "But you two cannot face each other again."

"I understand your position on this," I said with forced evenness, "I do, but I need _you_ to understand that a confrontation can't be avoided. Not with him."

"Can he be cornered?" Raoul asked hopefully, "Cornered and taken out quickly?"

"Cornered, yes," I responded, "That is a possibility. But it will not be an easy confrontation. He'll fight back."

"That's what scares me the most," Christine said softly, "You've returned with gunshot wounds and broken ribs in the past, and we all _know_ he's capable of worse violence. He wanted to kill you back then, and he lost his chance. Now he means to finish the job."

"I won't give him the chance again," I persisted stubbornly even as a logical part of me whispered that no one could be entirely certain on _that_ front. But it seemed in those moments that my bravado was all I had left.

"It's not up to you, Erik."

"What do you propose I do, then?" I snapped before making a mighty effort not to take my frustrations out on her, "We certainly can't let this lie."

"Not indefinitely, no. I'm not saying we should," she offered, "But you cannot act hastily - "

"I'm _not_ \- "

"I know. You've already said as much. But even so I don't think you should face him at all. Not directly. You must promise me that you won't, that we'll find another way."

"Christine - "

"Please promise me."

" _No_ ," I said, more harshly than intended before lowering my voice, "I can't do that."

" _Please_ , Erik," she pressed, meeting my eyes with desperation.

I didn't speak for several moments as I considered her words against our few options before ultimately sighing in my defeat, "Alright, I promise. Until or unless something changes that forces my hand, I will make that promise to you."

She only nodded in response, but her eyes betrayed her utter relief at my words.

In my vow I told no lies - I could concede that it would be wisest to locate Vito and attempt to apprehend him indirectly, being mindful to move with caution in the meantime. The logical part of me insisted that doing so might be the most effective means of avoiding a bloodbath. I simply needed to maintain the upper hand, to constantly stay one step ahead of him until the time came when something finally gave; I was certain of _that_ outcome, and I needed to proceed in a way that meant escaping with my life and the lives of those I loved intact. In several ways, Vito was incredibly unpredictable, but even so there were many habits that he could almost definitely be counted upon to rely on when he felt desperate. For one thing, he was calculating, and while he could not be allowed to plan ahead for long, it was his hesitance to act recklessly that might ultimately be the key to his demise. But when his patience ran short, he would surely be more compelled to lash out in desperation without allowing himself to think clearly. In the meantime, I knew that he wouldn't strike immediately, and I intended to make good use of that time. When the right moment presented itself - when I would be forced to act - I would corner him, catch him within his own trap. I would be lying if I said I was _entirely_ satisfied with that course of action, but for the moment it was all we could devise, and I had to be content with that.

Raoul promised to remain nearby, assuring us that he was more than able to do so, and I allowed his continued involvement for the sake of my family. From that point, there was nothing left to do but wait and pray for survival.

~~oOo~~

It was nearing the middle of December by the time a disturbance of any consequence occurred, but as such the unsettling gesture was enough to compel us to realize at the very least that the time had come that we could no longer remain in our home.

I had recently begun making inquiries after Vito, whom I feigned to be a bitter acquaintance that owed me a debt - a simple enough lie, as it happened. All I needed was a description of him, and no one questioned my underlying motives. But he had proven at every turn to be nearly impossible to find - he was a rogue with absolutely no ties to a community, and therefore easily slipped back into the shadows at his whim. Knowing that he was near and yet never being able to trap him had certainly taken its toll on my already thin patience, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could go on in that fashion before I finally snapped and hunted him down myself after all. But every time that thought occurred to me, I remembered my promise to Christine and the very real threat to my life that the option presented, and in the end I always stayed my hand. We had not deluded ourselves into believing that the looming storm of violence had passed during the preceding weeks of uneventful anticipation by any means, and in hindsight it came as no surprise that the gypsy had chosen to wait before he acted against us again. Doing so was simply another move in his darkly twisted power play; we had already been aware of that much. And so when his next move was finally made, the danger that Vito presented was no longer a distant idea, but rather a tangible threat to our wellbeing - and likely soon enough to our very lives.

I returned home as quickly as possible that morning after making my way into the city to present designs at my place of employment. I had convinced myself that my most recent work left much to be desired - my mind was certainly elsewhere of late, and my heart didn't seem to find comfort in that particular creative outlet as it once had. But my employer seemed satisfied enough even with my halfhearted presentation, and I was not obliged to remain in the building and away from my home in order to explain myself. I was grateful for that; a recent snowstorm had rendered the streets icy and difficult to navigate quickly with any measure of safety, and as it stood I was anxious to return to my family as soon as possible. Not needing to take any additional time away from them beyond the unfortunate necessity of having to tread cautiously through the streets proved to be a great relief to my stress-addled mind.

As soon as I reached the path that would lead me to my doorstep, my heart began to pound so forcefully that I thought it would surely fight its way from my body as I caught sight of something directly ahead of me glinting in the harsh winter sunlight. Terror gripped me with a devastating force as recognition crept its way into my consciousness - I saw before me a dagger plunged into the wooden surface of my door, a gesture clearly meant as both a threat and a warning, and I could only imagine what grim horrors I would find when I crossed the threshold - for a flitting and terrible moment I could only assume the worst. Half-blinded by panic, I called out for Christine and Charles as I searched the house. I was prepared to turn the entire structure on end in order to locate them, and I was relieved beyond words when I found them upstairs, thoroughly confused by my behavior but otherwise - _mercifully_ \- unharmed. The dagger was a signal that we had been located - an empty threat in the end, but it was a threat nonetheless, and I knew I needed to alert my wife to the newest change in our situation. Quickly ensuring that our son remained sequestered in his bedroom, I brought Christine outside to show her the reason for my outburst.

It didn't take long for us to decide that the time had come for us to find temporary housing in the city.

Within the same week of the incident with the dagger, we took up residence in a small apartment in an older section of London. It was not luxurious by any means, but it offered us that much more safety than we could have attained in our own home. After writing to Madame Giry in explanation of Vito's latest bout of madness, we gave Iva and Vera only the barest of details regarding our departure, leaving out as much as possible of my sordid past for the sake of maintaining the anonymity that I had gained upon first arriving in London. They were hesitant to accept our reasons, but wished us well all the same. I wanted very badly to tell them that our leaving was partially for their own good, and I deeply regretted that Christine and Charles would be parted from their friends indefinitely, but there was simply no way we could remain where we were. Being away from our home could potentially mean that Vito could not catch us off guard - at least not as easily - and we were obliged to take that leap of faith. In that instance, I didn't consider running to be an act of cowardice as I once might have in my youth; if it meant protecting my family, I would do whatever was necessary. But even so, I reminded myself that we could not remain in hiding indefinitely.

We could not live our lives in blinding fear, and I was anxious to see the conflict finally resolved. As it stood, Christine and I lived in a constant state of trepidation, never able to quiet our minds. It was emotionally exhausting, straining us both to our limits.

I wanted it to be over.

~~oOo~~

It was some days after celebrating the new year, and a particularly violent snowstorm was on the horizon, I was certain of it. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, eerily reflecting the lamplight of the streets as nighttime overtook the city in one fell swoop. The air beyond our doorstep was completely still, unnaturally silent to the point of appearing almost ethereal, but I knew that such mystic qualities of that stillness wouldn't last through until the dawn. When the storm finally arrived, it would surely be accompanied by a violent wind, driving the flurries down from the heavens with a blinding force, and the cacophony would be fearsome. That much was true enough in winters passed - I expected this night to be no different. No one was on the streets, the citizens of London having long ago taken shelter within their own homes, leaving behind only footprints in the hard-packed snow as evidence of their existence in the world. There was nothing to do then but take shelter and wait for the first signs of snowfall. Always waiting...

I considered the coming storm as I myself waited for my son to decide upon which story he wanted to hear before bed. Each night, ever since he was old enough to choose the books for himself, he made a great show of picking out just the right tale by which to fall asleep. Christine and I had always suspected that his indecision was due in no small part to simply avoiding the inevitability of retiring to his bed. He made it no secret that he would much rather have preferred to remain awake, playing and talking and generally carrying on with whatever adventures captured his interest. But he would always lose in a battle of wills against his parents - we had always encouraged his creativity, to be sure, but we had to remain firm on many fronts, and his sleep was not something for which we were willing to negotiate with the child.

At length and after many prompting comments on my part, he finally pulled a book from the shelf. We took few possessions with us to the apartment, but we did ultimately decide to provide as much familiarity for Charles as we possibly could. He was supplied with his favorite books and trinkets to make up for his lack of playmates, and in his mind we were simply on an extended holiday. I was immensely relieved when he did not question our pilgrimage into the city - to him, doing so was yet another adventure rather than a desperate fight for survival. He approached me, holding up his book proudly, and I was not surprised to see a collection of Hans Christian Andersen's works in his small hands. My son was quite taken with the author's fairytales, often chattering endlessly about his favorite characters and occasionally adding to the plots himself when he saw fit. He had quite the imagination, and I recall telling Christine ages ago that our son would make a fine writer himself one day. She had laughed good-naturedly at my pride in the child, and as I looked upon him that night in the dingy apartment that he didn't deserve, I longed for nothing more than to simply return to times passed. But I knew that wasn't possible, and with a heavy heart I forced my thoughts back to the present.

"Are you warm enough?" I asked, settling beside my son as he wriggled about under his blankets. He had claimed that he was not at all tired, of course, but his eyes betrayed him.

"Yes," he stifled a yawn, "Can we read _The Steadfast Tin Soldie_ r?"

"If you promise to settle down and try to sleep," I said, knowing that he would do just that so long as I fulfilled his request to read his favorite.

"I will," he said quickly, eager to hear the journey of the poor lost and lovesick toy.

I read to him for a time, mindful of keeping my voice low in order to lull him to sleep soundly for the night. I glanced at him often until I saw that he had finally dropped off, but even after I closed the book, I remained by his side. Of late, Christine and I had been extremely hesitant to leave him alone, especially in the evening hours, and that night was no different. I tucked his blankets more securely around him and simply sat there, taking in his presence like air to a drowning man and considering my resolve to keep him safe. I couldn't imagine a life without him. At length, I kissed his forehead, whispered a nearly inaudible _goodnight_ , and turned down the lamp to ensure that he continued to sleep peacefully. I returned to the main room of the apartment to find Christine lounging upon the divan that stood before the window - her favorite position for it, no matter the home in which she found herself. It was endearing to me how wholly engrossed in her own book she was that night. I was loath to disturb her - it was so seldom that she allowed herself to simply relax anymore - and was about to make my way to the writing desk when she looked up and smiled at me. I could only half-heartedly return the gesture.

"Is he asleep?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Which one was it tonight?" she asked with a knowing grin.

"The tin soldier, again," I responded absently.

"Of course," she mused with a fond smile, "Are you going to work on designs?"

"I had planned on it."

"Why don't you sit with me awhile instead?" she asked after considering me briefly.

I smiled again, this time a bit more sincerely, and accepted her offer. I had no real reason to be working that night - I had simply meant the designs to serve as a distraction, but I found that remaining by my wife's side was far more compelling. Simply being near to one another more often than not proved to still my frantic heart more effectively than anything else, and I was grateful for her closeness. Even after all of the years we spent together, she never ceased to amaze me, and I knew that was one of many reasons my love for her ran so deeply. We settled beside each other upon the divan, deciding to lay down together while she continued her reading. Once more I found her eagerness to remain lost between the pages endearing, even comforting in its familiarity. To simply observe her become so enraptured in the lives of those characters reminded me yet again of better times, and I held on to that image as fervently as I had with my dreams of our son's future. As she read, she absentmindedly ran her hand over my chest and abdomen, a soothing gesture that finally loosened the chains of fear around my heart, even if only briefly so. Another rarity. I decided not to question it, opting instead to wrap my arm around my wife that much more securely as the stillness of the night settled around us.

I was asleep before I realized it, too many sleepless nights rendering me more often than not exhausted and yet still unable to succumb to my weariness. But it was not a restful slumber whatsoever. I was almost immediately plagued by nightmares, deafened by screams and rendered completely helpless to stop them. I heard Christine pleading for my help, saw Charles in the clutches of faceless enemies, but no matter what I did, I could not reach them. It was inescapable; it seemed that my life and everything I knew was spinning around me, destroyed before my eyes in the intensity. In that frenzy of chaos and pain I was sure that the entire world was coming to an end. I was all too familiar with that particular nightmare - I revisited those hellish scenes almost nightly ever since being presented with Vito's letter, and even so the images within my mind represented only a fraction of the turmoil within me at once again being the target for an undeserved pursuit and execution. I woke with a start, disoriented and terrified at first as I struggled to catch my breath, and several seconds passed before recognition of my surroundings finally dawned on me.

"You're alright, Erik," Christine's voice rang in my ears before finally becoming clear enough to comprehend, "You had a nightmare."

I nodded, meeting her eyes and signalling that I understood, "I'm fine."

"Was it very bad?" she pressed, and continued when I again nodded slowly, "I'm sorry, darling. But you're safe now."

I sighed, "I should get up," I said wearily as I stood and made my way slowly from the divan. I knew if I slept any more that night I'd only be resigning myself to that dark dreamscape once again, and for the moment I couldn't stomach the idea.

"Must you?"

"Yes. Go ahead and return to your book."

"If you're sure," she said uncertainly.

Smiling fondly upon her, I was about to respond when something outside caught my eye through a break in the otherwise drawn curtains. My expression slowly fell as I attempted to confirm the movement as fact or dismiss it as a trick of the eye. It was a subtle disturbance of the strange shadows cast by the low-hanging clouds, almost imperceptible. When a moment passed with no further activity, I could have easily convinced myself that I had simply imagined it in the first place. But my instincts cried out for me to pay close attention; something was not right, and I felt a deep sense of foreboding crash over me like a violent tide.

"What is it?" Christine asked, alarmed by my change in demeanor, "Erik?"

"Someone's out there," I said distantly, moving forward to draw back the curtains.

Everything happened very quickly then.

Without warning, one of the square panes of the window was shattered as a flaming object came hurtling through it. I had only seconds to recognize the coming danger and remove Christine from the impact, taking her by the wrist and forcefully wrenching her away from the sudden and nearly blinding glow which quickly surrounded us. In the same breath as our escape, a molotov cocktail had burst against the floor in an intense rush of heat and displaced air; the flames raced away from their origin in the blink of an eye, spreading impossibly far as we both hit the ground painfully. The room was an inferno within seconds as the fire moved to consume the fabric of the curtains, the rug, and the divan with a frightening swiftness - nothing was safe, especially in that relatively dilapidated space. But there was no time to assess the damage - we needed to leave immediately. I heard Charles cry out for us from his bedroom beyond, and Christine was already rushing to him when I made my way to stand upright again. I blinked back tears as the pernicious smoke burned my eyes - it was already thick and disorienting, but not impossible to traverse at the beginning of the ordeal, and it didn't take me long to make my way into the hallway and away from the swiftly burning room behind me.

Christine met me in the narrow corridor, holding Charles close as he clutched at his mother in complete terror and confusion. When she spoke, her voice held as much fear, "Erik, what - "

"Take him outside," I commanded, raising my voice over my son's frantic sobbing.

Her eyes widened at my words, "You're not coming?"

"I'll be out soon," I said, ushering them toward the small kitchen whose door led to the street behind us, "Go round to the front and get help."

"Come with us," she insisted, crying out as I made to turn away, "What are you _doing_?"

"Go now, _get out_!" I yelled then, losing all pretense of kindness in the chaos and my desperation to see them to safety.

When I was assured that Christine and Charles were secured among the crowd of neighbors that had quickly gathered, I turned back to go further into the apartment. In those brief moments of my absence, the smoke had grown considerably thicker as the flames engulfed nearly the entire front of our part of the structure, and I had to cover my mouth and nose as best as possible with my sleeve in order to make it through that hazy darkness. It was far more disorienting than it had been before, and I could feel the heat of the flames coupled with the toxic smoke affecting me with each shallow breath I took. I spent far longer than I had intended trying to reach the corners of the main room that I needed to access, but even so I rushed as efficiently as I was able in order to gather objects of utmost importance; paperwork, Christine's jewelry box of mementos, my pistol, all these needed to remain with us, and I hadn't trusted our luck enough to keep them at our own house. I wasted no more time in collecting what I sought before finally making my way out into the street.

Rendered on quite unstable footing and feeling extremely lightheaded as the chilled night air surrounded me, I was distantly aware of the rush of people seeming to swirl all around me, many of the men fighting a losing battle against the flames while others looked on in horror at what they were witnessing. The families that formed the crowds were all entirely ignorant of the origin of the disaster, likely dismissing it as a terrible and unexpected accident. But I knew, with a forceful pang of guilt of which I hadn't known I was capable, that they were driven from their homes in the middle of a frigid night simply because my family had been the target of an attack. I had no doubts that Vito had been the one to set the fire, and I was enraged to see yet more tangible evidence to what lengths he would go in order to further torment us. I had an inkling that the attack was not meant to be fatal, but rather as a means to drive us out of the relative safety of our seclusion - he meant to disarm us once again. At any rate, his methods were growing more intense with each instance. I didn't yet know what card he was playing that night, only that the deck was no longer stacked in my favor. If we weren't' careful, he would gain the upper hand after all, and the prospects of that horrible unknown terrified me.

I finally located Christine some time later among the throng as she held fast to Charles, cradling him in her arms and speaking as soothingly as possible. He was absolutely frantic, and my heart shattered at the sight. Christine was in no better state, visibly shaking in the terror of what she had just escaped. A sob escaped her when she saw me approaching as quickly as I was able, but I could do nothing at that moment beyond looking upon her apologetically as I put my arms tightly around her and our son. I had brought this about, set these events in motion long before our first encounter, and I knew that I was entirely to blame for her anguish then. _If she had never met me, she would have known peace_ , a bitter part of myself jeered. I shuddered at the thought, unable to forget it as I wrapped my arms more firmly around her and Charles. They were all I had, and it seemed that in spite of my greatest efforts and best intentions, I could only bring them suffering in the end.

Our apartment had sustained the most damage, but even so, the homes surrounding it did not make it out unscathed. When the fire was finally managed, many of our neighbors were displaced that night, and I had to bite back more than one withering comment at their accusatory looks in our direction. Even if they perceived the events which had unfolded as a mere accident, it was clear that they held us accountable for it regardless. It was only in knowing the truth that I was able to hold my tongue, but I felt the sting of their resentment nonetheless. If they knew the origin of those flames, the evilness of the man behind the attack, perhaps they would not have been so quick to judge. But I refused to think on it long - the night was bitterly cold and growing worse by the minute, and it was soon obvious that none of us was trembling from fear any longer. We had to find suitable lodgings immediately, and mercifully it wasn't long before we settled on taking a room at a nearby inn. As it happened, it was located not far from Larwin Square. I hadn't realized how close the apartment was to it, and that fact unnerved me badly - to me, it was an ill-omen thrust upon us in the wake of terror, and although I made a mighty effort to dismiss it as sheer coincidence, I could not release the unease with which I regarded the unfortunate location of the landmark. But we were in no position to change course by then, and checked into our room with no small amount of resignation and lingering fear.

By the time we were safely indoors once again, the wind had picked up significantly, and as predicted it carried on it the first snowflakes of what would prove to be a powerful storm.

I realized my folly at staying in the smoky apartment as long as I had more forcefully with each passing moment. I was having a great deal of trouble breathing, as if I were still walking among the flames - each inhalation feeling like knives driven into my windpipe. I could hardly speak above a whisper, and even that much rendered me in as much pain as simply breathing had. It was as miserable as it was terrifying. I did not like the sensation of not feeling like I could draw a full breath, and in my hazy and nervous mind I was convinced more than once that I was suffocating. The sensation left me anxious beyond reason - even with as much pain as I was in, I found that I could not sit still for long. Charles couldn't settle down any more successfully than I could, and my pacing about the room wasn't helping him in the least. Distraught by her inability to help me or soothe our son effectively, Christine finally suggested that I excuse myself to the washroom and clean up as best as I could if only in the hopes that doing so might at least bring me even the smallest measure of calm. I obliged without question and not at all for my own sake, knowing that our poor child would likely not fall asleep again if I remained in the same room as him in my current state.

When I was alone again, I sincerely attempted to compose myself, but it quickly proved to be a futile endeavor. I was just as miserable alone as I was in the room beyond, and in spite of my best attempts I simply could not rein in my turbulent emotions. What we had just experienced was nothing less than traumatic, and for my part the very recent memories continued to impact me incredibly negatively even long after being separated from immediate danger. My inability to settle down as flashes of fiery images assaulted my consciousness was only allowing my heartbeat to race steadily more alarmingly, and as such my breathing remained quick and erratic, meeting the air on a strangled voice.

I found myself standing before the washbowl, gripping the edges of its stand until my knuckles turned white, and with each passing moment I became all the more convinced that I might drop dead on the spot. At length, I removed my mask and attempted to shock myself back into reason by holding my breath and plunging my now-bare face into the ice-cold water before me. That alone was painful, and for a terrible and flitting moment I wondered if I should just simply drown myself and be done with it; but as the seconds ticked away I was able to regain enough of my composure to be confident in my actions when I chose to proceed. When at last I could no longer stand to be without air, I withdrew from the water with a gasp and prepared to take my leave from my solitude.

I returned to Christine to find her sitting upon the bed, stroking Charles' hair as he slept in a nest of blankets. I noted that she was singing a lullaby softly to him. Before that night, he had long since outgrown the need to fall asleep to his mother's voice, preferring instead to hear his beloved music during the day and have his fairytales accompany him to his dreams in the melodies' stead. But it seemed that he was unable to fall asleep again that night without the aid of the sound of gentle music, and my heart ached for him once more. Christine rose when she became aware of my presence, and with a disarming start I noticed for the first time that she was cradling her wrist tenderly - that it appeared bruised and held at an unnatural angle. Perhaps it was not broken, but it was evident that when I pulled my wife up and away from the divan earlier, I had hurt her badly in the process. I had caused her pain in so many more ways than that - mounting over the years in a disgraceful tally against me - and the sight of her injury only served to remind me of that bitter fact.

Blinded by renewed tears and with a strangled cry, I all but ran to her, taking her up in my arms and shuddering with painful sobs. I couldn't stop myself - I had felt immensely guilty in the preceding weeks, but that night I felt as if that guilt would finally destroy me at any moment. This is what our lives had become, what we had been reduced to after fighting for so long to overcome the past. And it was entirely my fault. I could dispute until I ran out of breath that I had been justified in killing Javert to win my freedom, and the last dregs of logic within my consciousness fought to argue that even my worst sins did not warrant Vito's endless pursuit for vengeance. But stronger than that plea for understanding was a darker part of myself which countered that such ideas didn't change the fact that my actions had been the catalyst in the chain of events that ultimately brought us to that hateful, firey night. It was entirely my fault...

"I'm sorry, Christine," I choked, scarcely recognizing my own voice, "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said, seeming taken aback by the abruptness of my actions, but I sensed that she suspected their origins as she held me with as much fervor as I offered, "You did nothing wrong."

"This happened because of me - "

" - Hush now, calm down," she said, pulling back slightly and touching my throat gently, "Oh, your poor voice."

"It's hard to breathe," I admitted, still clearly shaken by my injuries.

"We need to find you a doctor."

I shook my head, "I was in the apartment too long, that's all. There's not much that can be done." I said, but my voice caught in the end, and I closed my eyes against the pain it caused.

"Don't speak anymore, Erik."

"I hurt your wrist," I whispered, ignoring her plea and taking ahold of her hand gently to have a closer look at the injury. She winced when I ran my fingers along the bones, but to my immense relief nothing appeared to be broken. Still, it was a significant sprain at the very least, and it would need to be wrapped as soon as possible.

"It's fine - "

"No, it isn't. I'm so sorry," I repeated, pulling her into my embrace once more.

We remained in one another's arms for quite a while, neither of us willing or able to let go. With each painful and shuddering breath I took, I felt Christine tense in fear, and I knew that nothing I could do or say would reassure her. There was little comfort to be found that night, the only thing in which we were able to find some solace was in the fact that we had made it out of the sudden inferno with our lives, that our son at last slept safely under our watchful gazes. But beyond those small comforts, we were nearly writhing in our shared agony, of the uncertainty and potential harm that we still expected to encounter. I knew that Christine didn't want me to confront Vito face-to-face, and until then I had kept my promise faithfully, albeit grudgingly so. But after what had transpired that night, after the entirety of the nightmare that he had put us through for so long, I could no longer stand to the side and wait for the solution to somehow present itself - that simply wasn't going to happen. I regretted doing so for as long as I had, and we would not go on in this fashion for much longer. We couldn't. I didn't know who would break first, but it would surely come to pass, and I wasn't willing to wait and withstand the outcome.

We were in Hell.

I had promised not to act until Vito forced my hand, and that day had come. One way or another, this conflict needed to be brought to a close. The gypsy's life needed to end once and for all - even if it meant sacrificing my own life in the pursuit of that victory.


	31. If I Must Fall

**Author's Note:** _Back for another chapter! We're winding down to the end, and the next couple of chapters will have some damn cruel cliffhangers...just so you know...In the meantime, this one is just ominous as all fuck. So have fun with that too! Please share your thoughts about pacing, direction, etc. Whatever tickles your fancy. Does anyone have some guesses as to what happens next? Why the hell Erik has to be so cryptic (you'll understand why I say that when you read)? Again, feel free to review and let me know. I love the feedback and hope to take any criticism and improve my work for y'all to enjoy. Thank you so much to everyone that's been reading. As always, you're greatly appreciated! Alrighty, really not much else to say, surprisingly. The title for this chapter comes from the song "Let Me Fall" from Cirque du Solei, sung by Josh Groban. I think it reflects a lot of Erik's inner-turmoil here, and I was happy to have gotten to use it. Welp, I believe that's about it. Remember to review and share some love, and above all, ENJOY!_

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Chapter 31 - If I Must Fall

Erik

It was still snowing forcefully the following morning, rendering the world outside of our shelter a dark and oppressive knot of gray clouds looming above; it seemed as if they were waiting for just the opportune moment to swallow us whole. The driving storm didn't seem likely to let up any time soon. We would surely be obliged to remain within the confines of the inn for the remainder of the day, but as it stood I could not say that I minded - with Vito so nearby, being rendered immobile as we were was likely the safer option. The events which transpired the previous evening were jarring, to say the least, and I was hesitant to venture past the building's threshold sooner than was absolutely necessary. Better we remain under the cover of the ghastly weather for a time. I didn't know how long it would be until we were ready to make our next move, but I had already made my decisions regarding how to proceed, and at the very least there was much to be discussed in the meantime.

Once we had parted after my tearful pleas for forgiveness, I had helped Christine to bind her wrist before she gave in to her own exhaustion, insisting that I lay with her and Charles for a time. I'm not sure if she made that request for my benefit or her own; the reason mattered little. I was immensely grateful for their nearness, but as I held fast to my wife with our son huddled between us, my mind wouldn't stop racing at that physical reminder of all I had to lose.

My decision was made long before I became cognizant of it.

Under the cover of darkness in that unfamiliar setting, I knew that I had to fight back against the man who wished to bring about my death - my continued suffering. My family could not remain so near to me as I struggled against that evilness; of that, I was entirely certain. I had to send them to a place where they would remain untouched until the danger passed, and I steeled myself to the very real risks I would be taking when the time came to act. Moreover, a part of me knew even then that I would have to undertake the dispute _alone_ in order to draw him out of hiding. As such I would have to break my promise to Christine, to confront Vito without aid in what would one way or another have to prove to be our final standoff. I would be lying if I did not admit that the very idea terrified me - I knew that I would not let the gypsy go free, that I would sacrifice my own life in that endeavor if I had to. But I also knew how heartbreaking it would surely be to be taken into the arms of death and away from the only family I had ever known. Even so, if I was meant to give my life, then I was prepared to take that risk to with their freedom. If I didn't - if I failed - I knew that I was damning them to a far worse fate.

I hadn't slept whatsoever once Christine fell asleep herself and we parted from one another's desperate embrace - my heart wouldn't still, and my chaotic thoughts refused to find quiet in those long hours of darkness. The violent images and bleak possibilities which flashed before my mind's eye were as turbulent as the storm beyond our window, and as Christine and Charles slept I felt I would only disturb them in my restlessness if I remained in bed beside them.

I paced about for a time, feeling much like a caged animal in my apprehension and fury, only stopping once my pain and exhaustion finally overtook my senses entirely. My throat was still raw from the smoke - each inhalation as painful as the last - and my chest remained unnervingly tight. I was far too anxious to find calm given _those_ circumstances alone, never mind my internal disquietude. With a deep sense of weary resignation I opted instead to sit at the small table in the corner of our room, keeping a watchful eye over my family while slowly coming to terms with my latest decisions. My next hurdle would be convincing my wife of the reasoning behind my choices, and I dreaded the pain it would surely cause her. At length, the hands of my pocket watch told me that dawn had arrived behind the stormclouds, and for lack of anything else to do with restless and idle hands I left the room briefly to ask about tea from the innkeeper - an obnoxious little man whom eyed me with thinly veiled suspicion as openly then as he had the night before. I was more than relieved that our exchange that morning was short-lived.

When I returned to the room with supplies in hand, Christine was sitting up in the bed, arms wrapped around her knees like a child. She met my eyes upon my arrival, but made no other movements to indicate that she would rise completely just then.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," I said softly, mindful to not disturb Charles and still having trouble speaking as I set the borrowed kettle and teacups on the table.

"You didn't," she replied distantly before adding, "Do you feel any better?"

"No, unfortunately. You could sleep awhile longer, you know. It's still early yet."

"I don't think I can," she admitted, mirroring my own unease as she finally rose and slowly made her way toward me, "I'll take tea with you, though, if you don't object to my company," she added with a small smile.

I laughed humorlessly, "I would never object to your company."

"It snowed all night, didn't it?" she asked as she pulled a chair close beside mine, pausing only to glance out of the small break in the curtains, correctly assuming that I had remained awake through the small hours of the morning to witness the extent of the storm.

"Give me your wrist," I said, taking her offered hand gently in my own to reexamine the injury before responding, "And yes, it did. It hasn't let up much."

"I hope it doesn't," she said wistfully, "We could just stay here forever."

I sighed, releasing her wrist when I was satisfied that it was recovering properly, "I wish that were possible."

"It was a snowstorm that brought us together, that first time," she said after a moment's thought, "Do you remember?"

"How could I forget?" I smiled, pouring her tea before my own.

"I sometimes wonder what would have become of us had I not gotten caught up in that mess. If you still would have listened to me…" she trailed off as she wrapped her hands around the teacup, taking in its warmth against the cold morning, "Would the outcome have been the same? Would you have still found the strength to love me?"

"There's no use in worrying over what cannot be changed. It worked out for us in the end, and I'm grateful that _you_ had the patience to wait for me to work through my bullheadedness. Don't think on it," I paused, "Besides, we've other things to discuss now."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," she said warily.

"And I don't like what needs to be said."

"What is it?" she asked, setting her tea upon the table. I took that opportunity to move it to the side and capture her hand in my own, knowing that I needed to reassure her as much as myself in those crucial moments ahead.

I made an effort to steady myself before speaking, "When the storm passes, when travel is possible again, I want to send you and Charles back to France."

"What?" she gasped, her eyes alight with panic.

I held up my free hand in a silent plea for a chance to explain further, not wishing to alarm her needlessly, "Just for a time, until Vito is dead and gone. You'll stay with Madame Giry - "

"No." she said simply - unwaveringly - and I cringed at her tone. I knew she would not make this an easy conversation.

I sighed, my voice cracking with even that slight exhalation, "You _have_ to go, Christine. It's not safe here anymore, I can't protect you both. And I'm not going to continue to allow either of you to be in jeopardy because of me."

"I can't just leave you here alone," she persisted before adding obstinately, "You shouldn't speak anymore, it's obviously hurting your throat."

"My throat is fine," I snapped, "And I'm not - "

"I _will not_ leave you." she interrupted, raising her voice slightly before looking over her shoulder to our sleeping child. Assured that he had not been disturbed, she turned back to me briefly before looking away pointedly.

We were silent for a time, each lost in our respective thoughts.

I knew that she would be stubborn, but I was growing more frantic with each passing moment at the thought of her refusal and wondering how I could convince her to concede. I was devastated by the prospect of having to send my family away, she had to know that. I hadn't made that decision lightly - I had to do whatever was necessary to keep them safe while I fought for our lives. It was bad enough that they had witnessed what they had the night before, that those vengeful flames would forever be engraved into their memories. I didn't want to give their minds fodder for nightmares that would surely haunt them when all was said and done. And while we had survived the attack, it was only because Vito had not meant to kill any of us then. But when he finally decided enough was enough and his cold calculations settled to serve his wicked purposes, I could not guarantee anyone's survival. I wanted Christine and Charles as far away from that madness as possible, with people that I trusted to ensure their safety. I needed her to understand that before it was too late.

The moments stretched on; the silence was growing deafening as I reluctantly let go of her hand and folded my arms in front of me in an attempt to rein in my distress. My chest was hurting more as the morning dragged on, and I wanted to keep a clear head for the moment when one of us finally broke the silence.

"We'll send Charles, that much I can agree to," she offered at last, "But I'm staying here with you. I won't go from this city knowing that you could be fighting for your life at any moment while we're apart. I will do anything to make sure our son is protected, but I won't stand aside and simply wait for word of your safety."

"Vito is looking for you right along with me," I reminded her, nearly pleading, "You need to be as far away from this as possible."

"Yes, he's looking for me. That's all the more reason I should stay in _London_ , Erik. He could very well change course and try to follow me to France. I won't lead him to Charles. His focus needs to remain on the two of us _here_ , you must see that."

I considered her words, unsettled that I had not considered that scenario before and realizing with a start that she very well may have been right. I understood her reasoning, but even so I couldn't shake the unease that I felt in those moments at our plans - and perhaps I wouldn't truly find peace until this was over. It seemed to me that no move I made would be the correct one. But I trusted my wife's judgement, perhaps even more so than my own.

In that spirit I made a sincere effort to steady myself before finally whispering, "I do see that now, but I'm terrified all the same. There's nothing I can say to convince you…"

"No, there's isn't," she sighed, "We'll have to tell him, perhaps after he wakes," she said, nodding toward our sleeping child.

"We can wait until tomorrow," I decided, "He had a bad shock last night, I'd rather not overwhelm him."

It was not surprising to us in the least that Charles slept well into the morning. His slumber _appeared_ sound enough, but I worried over his state of mind just the same. I was certain that he had been thoroughly traumatized by the fire and our subsequent escape, and my suspicions were confirmed when he finally did arise. He acted as anxiously as he had the previous evening when he woke with a start and looked around in an attempt to comprehend his unfamiliar surroundings. He looked somewhat reassured when Christine and I quickly appeared by his side, but only barely, and even so he remained in that nervous state long after rising. He clung to the both of us in turns as we readied him for the day, and for a long while after that. It was painfully clear that he was still deeply troubled by what he had witnessed, and I knew that only time would heal him.

I was immensely relieved when the following morning arrived and had indeed proven to bring him more of a measure of calm.

"Is the apartment gone?" he asked as we attempted to coax him into eating what little food we had been able to procure.

"It's not _gone_ , but it's badly damaged," I explained, "We will not be going back there."

"Then we're going home?" he asked hopefully, and my heart broke at his words.

"No, not yet," I said, deciding to tell him then, " _You_ are going to France."

"I am?" he asked, turning his head in his singularly endearing way which usually signalled that I had piqued his interest.

"Yes, to visit with your grandmother for a little while."

"And you'll get to see Sylvia again," Christine added, "Won't that be nice? You'll get to see where she lives, where your grandmother and Meg take her to walk on Sundays..."

"We're going to see _everybody_ when we go!" he announced, smiling brightly for the first time that day.

"Just you, Charlie," I said slowly, trying to hide my hesitance.

"But what about you and Mama?"

"We have to stay here, but it won't be long," I said evasively, then added, "Think of it as a holiday just for you."

He paused thoughtfully before conceding, "Alright, but not a _long_ holiday."

~~oOo~~

We had to wait quite some time for the effects of the miserable weather to pass - the storm itself had not lasted quite as long as anticipated, but the winds which had accompanied it had done significant damage in various parts of the city. Both post and travel were hindered for a time, and it look longer than I would have preferred to finally send a letter to Madame Giry detailing what needed to be done next. Christine and I knew that were asking a momentous favor of the now-retired ballet mistress - if anything happened to us both, Madame would be the one to whom we entrusted our beloved child. But we knew that there wasn't anyone else as fit for the task as her; she would without a doubt raise him to be a good, strong man. Moreover, she had known us the longest, understood us in a way that would allow her to give our son a good perspective of his parents as he grew older - we wanted him to have that to carry with him as Christine had so cherished her father's memory in her darkest moments. I shuddered at the very thought of Christine or myself being unable to witness our son growing up, but we could leave no detail unacknowledged. Our son _would_ be provided for and doted upon - we would have it no other way - and that was all that mattered then.

Madame Giry responded quickly that she would indeed take our son into her home until Vito was apprehended, and for the entirety of his upbringing if necessary. We were immensely relieved at her assurances even as we were fearful, and it wasn't long before she and Giles made their journey to London in order to take Charles into the safety of our homeland. Their visit was not long - we had all but done away with social decorum by that point, opting instead for brevity for the sake of lessening the risk of being seen by Vito. But as it stood, our remaining time with our son was far too short, and no amount of wishing could grant us more hours with him while still hoping to be safe in the end. And worse, anticipating his departure with no small amount of dread, while concurrently having to act around him as if nothing were out of the ordinary was absolute torture.

But saying goodbye to him was nearly impossible.

The day was unimaginably bright as our family and extended relatives stood awaiting the departure of the vessel that would take our only son away from us. It was not crowded in the least, most citizens opting to remain tucked away in their warm homes rather than braving the bitter cold. Lingering snow on the pathways and buildings beyond the docks reflected the sunlight with a sharp intensity, rivalled only by the chill which remained in the air. That January morning seemed to serve as an omen that the harsh winter would never end, but even so we had more pressing matters on our minds.

Christine held onto Charles as if she feared that he would absolutely shatter in anyone else's embrace, and he squirmed lightheartedly at his mother's affections. She was utterly terrified - we both were - but for Charles' sake we both managed to hide it well, and for our efforts we were rewarded with his innocent excitement at the adventure he had formerly only dreamed about. We had vowed long ago not to destroy his uncorrupted view of the world - if he knew the true reason for his hasty and unexpected departure, he would surely be devastated. I couldn't do that to him, I couldn't allow him to believe for a moment that he needed to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life or that he needed to worry after his parents. The end of his naivety would arrive all too soon, as it goes with children, but bringing that moment forth sooner than necessary was cruel; no son of mine would be made to know that kind of suffering. He had been a blessing when we had once thought we would only know pain, and he deserved better than what life had so abruptly handed us. As I looked upon him smiling in Christine's arms, I felt not for the first time a wave of gratitude overtake me for his presence in our lives.

"Give him here," I urged Christine gently after a time, needing to hold him close before he made his way across the sea.

"I want to see the water again," Charles said when Christine released him to me, "Please, Daddy?"

Once I was sure that my hold on him was sound, I lifted him higher in my arms and pointed to the horizon, trying to keep my voice steady as I spoke, "See out there? That's where we're from, and that's where you're going."

"But not for long," he reminded me, clearly apprehensive of his coming homesickness even as he longed to see further parts of the world, "And then I'll see you and Mama again."

I took a shuddering breath and kissed his forehead, "You'll be home soon, Charlie," I said, looking briefly at Christine. She knew what I was thinking then, that I would make no promises to Charles that I couldn't keep, and her dread at my words was nearly tangible.

He laughed excitedly, entirely ignorant of his parents' pain.

We were interrupted by the call that passengers were to come aboard, and as those words echoed through the air I felt my heart sink. We still wanted more time as badly as we had in the days prior to our hesitant goodbyes, needed it desperately, but we could not be so fortunate - we would simply never be ready to part with our boy. When I met Christine's uncertain eyes once more, I knew that her emotions mirrored my own. Seized unexpectedly by the fear of uncertainty on her behalf, I wanted so badly then to make one last attempt to convince her to join our son in Paris, but I knew that my words would only fall on deaf ears once again. I sighed in resignation rather than bothering to give voice to my wishes and turned my attention back to our child.

I embraced Charles for a moment before saying, "Time to go. Behave yourself, alright?"

He nodded, "I will."

"I know you will," I smiled proudly, passing him to his mother once more. As she kissed his cheeks and fussed over him, I turned to Madame Giry and Giles.

"Keep him safe," I said in a low voice, " _Promise me_."

"I promise, Erik," Madame Giry replied, "He'll be fine, I swear it."

"But I'm more worried about you," Giles added, looking pointedly at me. Over recent years he had gleaned information about the truth of my past, and in a showing of strong character he didn't hold my numerous transgressions against me or my family. I was immensely grateful for that, as much as I was thankful that he could now understand the gravity of the situation which necessitated sending the child back to Paris. But I could not put his worries to rest then - I wouldn't give anyone false hope.

"Just be careful," I said evasively, "Let us know when you arrive. Send a wire."

Giles only nodded solemnly in response as Madame Giry embraced me tightly before turning her affections on Christine. There was not much more we could say, opting instead to let the silence stretch on between us. Christine had passed Charles off to Giles by then, and our son waved to us enthusiastically as his protectors walked away from us, smiling brightly between his calls of ' _I love you, goodbye!_ ' and still completely ignorant to our misery.

Christine and I stayed on the docks until the group was out of sight, and even for quite some time afterward. I reached out, almost unconsciously, and held her hand tightly; she returned the gesture with as much force, but we couldn't speak even to one another just then - not yet. It seemed impossible to find the words to convey the desperate anguish and trepidation in our hearts. I already missed our son with a driving ache, and I knew that her pain was tenfold over mine. I had to constantly remind myself of why we had to send him away that icy morning - he would _not_ be in danger because of his father's sins. Bearing that truth in mind was perhaps the only reason I was able to go through with the separation, but it stung me deeply nonetheless.

Had I known then that our last encounter would be on those docks, I would have held on to Charles for far longer.

~~oOo~~

We did not rest easy until word finally came that Madame Giry, Giles, and Charles had arrived safely in France and had made the journey back into Paris easily.

Upon reading those long-awaited words, I genuinely smiled at the thought of my son's expression the first time he beheld the city that we had called home so long ago. He would be fascinated by it, I was sure, and I knew that he would chatter endlessly to his grandmother about all that captured his interest. But my expression immediately faltered when I realized that Christine and I would be missing that sense of wonder in him, and with no small amount of regret I once again cursed my circumstances - cursed Vito for his damnable pursuit in the name of his reprehensible father, a man that was far better off dead. The fact that my once-peaceful existence with my small family was now in shambles at the hands of that man's son was absolutely disgusting to me, and all the while my thoughts warred constantly between my ill-placed sense of guilt and my righteous indignation against the gypsies that tormented me. For too long had I been made to suffer in that filthy and violent camp, and years later the people I loved the most were experiencing the echoes of that hateful past. My only consolation then was that Charles was well away from immediate danger.

But knowing that my wife had stubbornly remained for my sake left me with a constant and deep sense of dread for her safety. As it stood, I quickly found that I could not rest easy so long as Christine remained by my side. Her presence in London meant that she was still in immediate danger, and would remain so as long as Vito was still breathing. I agreed with her reasoning to not lead the gypsy to our son, but even so having her near me gripped my heart with foreboding regarding her continued wellbeing. Her safety was my sole focus - utterly paramount as far as I was concerned - and with that in mind I was quite beside myself in trying to perfect my plan of attack as effectively as possible. Vito could not be allowed to act with lethal or violent force against her.

She found me whiling away in this state of mind the morning after we heard from Madame Giry. The common room of the inn was equipped with an upright piano, and while the instrument was badly in need of repair and some tuning, having it available was enough to quench the near-desperate need I had to lose myself in my music. It had been far too long since I had been able to engage in that creative outlet, but once I made my way to the keys and found the familiar patterns again, I felt a contentment deeply within my soul in a way that only music could provide. Christine had still been sleeping when I ventured downstairs, but when later she rose to join me I knew that she was approaching without needing to turn around on the bench - so many years together had seen to that much familiarity with her presence. I continued playing a slow and solemn melody when I felt her hand upon my shoulder; sighing warmly at the contact, I moved so that she could sit beside me. Only then did I stop playing.

"Do you remember the time when we viewed the unknown as something _glorious_? It was so full of potential," I remarked sadly, unable to meet her eyes, "Now it's only a waking nightmare."

"It was simpler back then," she agreed.

"You should sing again when this is done," I said, quite unexpectedly, "Join a theatre company, do something that will make you shine. When this ends, we can dream once more."

"When will it end, though?" she whispered after a time, " _How_ can it end?"

I considered my words before answering, "I need time that I don't have. But one way or another, it will be over soon," I said, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away again, "I won't let you live like this much longer."

"I have the terrible feeling that you'll change your mind."

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to conceal my guilt - I certainly had an _idea_ of what she was talking about.

She paused, "I fear that you'll go find him by yourself."

"I made you a promise," I said evasively.

"But what will your breaking point be? Will something happen that will make you amend that promise as you see fit?" she sighed, "I fear that you've already made that choice."

I hesitated before responding almost inaudibly, "Would you forgive me if I did?"

"Erik, _please_ don't - "

" - I love you, Christine," I said, almost pleading as I turned to face her directly, "Remember that now."

I couldn't bring myself to say anything else, and she didn't press me for answers. In the end, nothing more was spoken on the subject that day.

~~oOo~~

While our son was in France, Christine and I opted to continue remaining at the inn rather than returning to our own home - even with Charles away from the potential brutality that might befall him in London, we were still hesitant to have Vito close to our neighborhood. It wouldn't be fair to put Vera, Iva, or her boys at risk because of circumstances beyond their control and of which they were wholly ignorant; I wouldn't have any more blood on my hands.

Once I knew that our friends were relatively safe, Raoul and I set to work once more trying to locate Vito's whereabouts. He was as difficult to find as ever, and with each passing day I grew more restless and frustrated. On more than one occasion, Christine had to remind me that I needed to be patient, that acting recklessly in response to that man's heinous games would surely only serve to get myself killed. But even knowing that much, it was tempting to set off into the city and even beyond its limits and not rest until the gypsy was dead. It was only Christine's presence that compelled me to stifle the notion, even if it was only for the time being. I had not yet been entirely forthcoming about my resolve to eventually face up to the man, but I knew that I had to bide my time with my wife. I could not let her change my mind this time, but I wouldn't have her suffering in her fears for longer than necessary either.

Being patient had proven to serve our cause after all, and I was rewarded with integral knowledge that would come to stack the deck in my favor at last. It seemed that Vito had found temporary shelter in a gypsy fair outside of the city, but as such he had quickly worn out his welcome among the comparatively innocent band of travellers. I knew that he wouldn't remain there long, that I needed to act quickly before losing track of him once again, but that much information was all I needed to make my decision to attempt to apprehend him as soon as possible. If I was lucky, I could drive him into the forest beyond the camp and do away with him there. It was a monumental risk, I knew, but by then there seemed to be no other way, and I might not have the opportunity again. I would face him, and I would lay my life on the line if it meant that my family would go free. Christine still did not know the entirety of my renewed plans, but I knew what had to be done. In the meantime, I made arrangements with Raoul in order to assure that my family would be taken care of should anything happen to me.

The afternoon before I planned to set out on my search and with a heavy heart at the gravity of the situation, I called for Raoul to speak with me at the inn. I didn't want Christine to overhear the dreadful discussion - as far as she knew, I was simply requesting Raoul's assistance in my final pursuit of my enemy. By that point, I had led her believe that we were going to confront him as a group, and while I knew that she had her suspicions to the contrary, she accepted my words easily enough. But what I truly needed from Raoul was to stand guard over my wife while I met my confrontation alone and to manage my affairs should I fail, and it was imperative that he understood the duties presented to him.

"Christine will kill you herself if she finds out what you're planning to do," he declared, shocked by my announcement of my decision as we spoke near the end of the narrow hallway in hushed tones.

" _When_ she finds out," I responded firmly, "I'm not hiding anything from her any longer, not after today. She deserves to know."

"You're breaking your promise."

I sighed, "I have to. There's no other way of ending this than a direct confrontation."

"There must be some angle we haven't considered yet," he said almost desperately, "Find more help, or go to the police."

"And _what_ would we tell them exactly? There's no way of relating this without exposing my own past," I explained, "There's no statute of limitations on murder, Raoul. I'm still wanted in France, and there would be an immediate target on my back at my exposure. I will not be apprehended while that bastard goes free."

"What about leaving England?"

I shook my head, "He'll follow. Wherever we go in the world, he'll be there, I know it. And even if he didn't, we would never have a way of knowing that. We would always live with that fear haunting us. I won't put Christine through that, and I won't have my son grow up that way."

"You're afraid of him," he observed quietly, seemingly shocked by his realization.

"I am," I admitted, "I'm not so foolish as to see myself as invincible, and I know what he's capable of doing. I grew up around him and his father, they're truly evil people. I was a monster at the opera house, but they were _far_ worse. Have you ever wondered why I was so close to madness in Paris? Everything I knew about hatred, I learned from them."

"I will go with you, then," he offered after a time, "Lure him out of hiding."

"It's not _you_ that he wants," I said shortly before remembering myself, "I'll achieve nothing if he knows there will be witnesses. I have to go alone."

"You're commiting suicide," he said gravely.

"If that's what it will mean to save my family, to spare Christine, then God forgive me but I will. She's my wife, the mother of my children. I wouldn't have anything _to_ protect if it wasn't for her, and I won't fail her again."

"Children…" he said softly, suddenly lost in his own thoughts, "How can you regard your daughter so...easily? I can barely speak of my son, barely _think_ of him. I hear him crying every time I close my eyes. He haunts me…"

His words surprised me - from even the extremely brief conversations we had on the subject, I knew well how badly the loss of his son had affected him, made all the worse by having his wife taken from him as abruptly. He carried himself in a way that only hollow men do, that much was clear during each encounter we had since his arrival. But I hadn't quite realized until he spoke of his pain so openly just how ravaged the man's heart was. I pitied him - as much as I hated the sensation being leveled at me through the years, I suddenly understood what could compel a person to extend that awful emotion to another. I pitied him because I understood him, felt true sympathy for his pain. It seemed like several lifetimes had passed since Christine and I had been forced to endure that singular brand of torture ourselves, and I was sure that Raoul was as miserable in his isolation. It was with an immense feeling of regret - of humanity - that I realized how alike we had become.

"He haunts you because you won't acknowledge him," I said before realizing the thoughts had left my troubled mind.

He considered my words a moment before whispering, "How can I possibly do that?"

"That's entirely up to you."

There was a silence between us for a time before he spoke again, pointedly steadying his voice and closing the subject, "When you go to the fair, what am I to do? What do you need?"

I sighed, "You will stay here with Christine, guard the entrance to our lodgings while I'm gone. I won't have her in harm's way just because she was too damn stubborn and dedicated to my sorry hide to go to Paris," I said determinedly, able to smile slightly at my wife's commitment toward me even as its repercussions frightened me terribly.

"And if anything should happen to you?"

I handed him a parcel of documents, "That's everything Christine should need to ensure that she and Charles are taken care of. The deed to the house, finances...I want my son getting a good education, and I would prefer it if Christine wasn't forced to labor to survive. Everything in there will ensure that they want for nothing. I need you to see to that."

He nodded before asking, "Do you truly think you'll die before this is over?"

I laughed humorlessly, "In spite of my former insistence to the contrary, I'm only human," then added seriously, "I have no way of saying what will happen, but I'm no fool. I think there's a very real chance that I won't make it out alive," he flinched at my words, but I continued, "If that happens, I need you to promise me that my family will be safe when I'm gone."

"I will," he said, and I believed the conviction with which he spoke, "When do you leave?"

"Tonight."

Christine's voice sounding from the door of our room startled me as she cried, "What did you just say?" and when I met her eyes, I felt physical pain at the expression of shock and betrayal that she leveled to me.

I tried to reach out to her, "Christine - "

"You promised," she said before forcing her way past us and down the steep staircase.

"I'll come back tonight," Raoul assured me when we were alone again, nodding in the direction Christine had fled, "Talk to her."

When I met her once more in the common area of the inn, she had her arms wrapped around herself as she fought to hold back her tears. The sight of her anguish disarmed me, and for a flitting moment I very nearly considered abandoning my pursuit in favor of remaining by her side forever. I wanted so badly to take her up in my arms and hide away from the rest of the world for eternity, never again to worry about my dismal past or fighting for a place in society that wouldn't meet me with suspicion and loathing. I wanted to keep her and my son as far removed from the pain which always seemed to accompany me as humanly possible. But more than anything, I wanted to keep them safe - I had no choice but to fight for them, and in realizing that I knew that I had to continue on as decided, no matter how much Christine's eyes pled with me that afternoon to never let her go. With trembling hands, I shut and locked the door behind me - there were almost no other guests under the inn's roof just then, but even so I did not want to risk anyone walking in on us. I knew that this would prove to be a difficult conversation, but it needed to happen regardless of the distress and fear it would evoke.

"You can't go," she said, finally turning to face me, "You promised me."

"I did promise," I agreed as I approached her, "But everything is different now, Vito's forced my hand, just as I thought he would. I have to move forward this way. You know that I have to," I sighed, "We can't keep going on like this."

"Find another way. There _must_ be another way," she insisted.

"We've been through this, I've just told Raoul what I've been telling you - "

" _No_! I have a terrible feeling about this, Erik. He won't stop until you're dead, and you'll be in that much more danger alone. He'll kill you!"

"I _know_!" I yelled, finally losing my temper at her willfulness, "But if that's what it takes, I'll lay down my life for you."

She turned away from me as she said softly, "My life isn't worth it. I'd rather give mine than yours…"

"Don't you _dare_ ever say that to me again," I said in a low voice as I pulled her toward me with more force than I intended, " _Never again_."

"You can't do this for me," she cried, seeming to pay no mind to my steady grip.

"Don't you _understand_?" I yelled once more in desperation, unable to contain the flood of anger and fear that had raged through me. I had to get through to her, "I don't care about my life, not if it means you could lose yours. Have I not been clear enough? If I fail again, he'll take you, Christine. If I don't end his miserable life, he'll take you and I _promise you_ that he won't be merciful. Do you know what he does to women? He'll beat you, he'll _rape_ you, and he won't think twice about it. You'll wish for death, you'll try to bring it yourself, but he'll _never_ let you out."

She attempted to take a step away, disturbed by what she was hearing but still unwilling to relent even when I did release her, "Erik - "

" - And what if, just _what if_ he gets to Charlie after all as well? What if he lets us live but takes our son's life? Can you imagine that? It will be a waking nightmare, and he _knows_ that. He knows what losing him will do to us. _I won't have it_ ," I screamed, tears blurring my vision at the terrible images my words elicited, "I'm not forfeiting our son's life. I _will not_ bury another child!"

She rounded on me once again, her voice matching mine in its intensity, "What am I to _do_? This is an impossible choice!"

"I'm making this choice for you," I said, forcing myself to speak gently and taking her hands in mine as I pled, "Let me go tonight, and I'll end this."

Pulling her hands from mine almost forcefully, she backed away from me as if I had shocked her. In her eyes I saw an immeasurable pain, and at that moment I could feel my heart breaking with hers all over again.

She took a deep breath before speaking, "You'll go whether or not I _let_ you. But I won't say goodbye to you if it means that you're walking into your death. I won't."

She made to turn and storm out of the room, but I grabbed her by the forearm and forced her to meet my eyes once more, "Don't leave me this way."

"What do you want me to say to you?"

I paused before responding, "Say that you'll forgive me," I whispered tearfully, feeling as though I would be destroyed by the weight of my words.

In that moment, I felt that I needed her forgiveness more than anything. But I would be lying if I said that I felt I deserved it. We had been reduced to this terrible existence in the span of mere months, had been forced to send our son away in a desperate attempt to spare his precious life before our own. We were miserable beyond comprehension - I had made my beloved wife suffer because of the horrors of my past, and I was certain that the knowledge of my unwilling transgressions against her would haunt me until the end of my life. I didn't deserve her forgiveness as surely as I didn't deserve her. But my God, I _needed_ it. I feared going out into the night without knowing that I might still be granted to hold her heart close to my own - the prospect of her distance terrified me.

"I can forgive you," she said slowly, "But to voice it right now is to accept that you're going. I won't do that."

"Please - "

She wrenched herself away from me with a final agonized cry, and before I could comprehend what was happening she had unlocked the door and fled from the room. The slamming of the door behind her angered retreat in the otherwise silent space echoed deafeningly around me, but even so I found that I couldn't move for a time. I was paralyzed where I stood, and I couldn't see anything other than her flight away from me. Nearly unaware of what I was doing, my heart racing violently, I staggered toward a nearby writing desk and raised a tight fist to one of its shelves before me, letting out a guttural cry as I swept the contents of the shelf to the floor forcefully.

" _Fuck_!" I yelled into the emptiness of the room, exasperated beyond reason before falling to my knees and holding my head in my hands.

Once again, I felt the unmerciful tremors of my world crashing in around me - it seemed that I was losing everything that meant anything to me, my life slowly being ripped from my hands and rendering me powerless to stop the inertia of my suffering.

Since falling in love with Christine and having that loved returned by her kind heart, I had tasted all the happiness that I had ever known; I had been granted a life that I had never expected, only to have it stolen away from me with a devastating force and dragging those I loved the most through the fire behind me. For so long had I known peace, known the sense of belonging which I had only been able to dream of in my youth, but in those moments my treacherous mind whispered that it was not meant to last. I very likely faced my death, but hadn't I deserved that fate? Hadn't I for so long thought myself to be so loathsome and barbaric as to actually warrant my pitiful suffering? But I fought against those vengeful thoughts from a time long-since passed. I didn't _want_ that life, that was the important thing. I _never wanted_ to be a monster. I had resented the man I once was, and I wanted to leave the world knowing that I had risen above the darkness of my past - that I had become a man deserving the family with which I was blessed. I couldn't lose them now.

My thoughts raced as I remained kneeling in that horribly silent room. Yes, it seemed that my life was collapsing around me, and in those moments I felt powerless to stop it. I could only sit there - I didn't cry, didn't move. With time I only focused on the object of my loathing, saw Vito in my mind's eye and allowed that image to strengthen my determination to see to his end. _I couldn't lose them._ Never mind what happened to me, he could not have my family - he could not have Christine. Suddenly, my desperation to cast away his power only steeled my resolve that much further, and I knew that I would go out that night as planned and destroy my enemy once and for all. And in the end, if it meant giving up my life to win my family's freedom, then it was worth it - I should count myself most fortunate for the chance.


	32. Last Night on Earth

**Author's Note:** _So sorry it took a bit longer than expected for this update - we can all thank the drunken hellhole that was my bestfriend's birthday weekend/bridal shower for my lack of promptness and competence with editing. Can't do so while drunk, apparently. *shrugs* So glad my mother-in-law took my son for a good spoiling during that time...not so glad for the hangovers, exhaustion, and one traumatic game of King's Cup. I'm entirely to blame for that, but mostly for torturing everyone last time I updated! And this time...*shifty eyes* As we wind this down, prepare for more feels and cliffhangers. I'm terrible. Not too much else to say, surprisingly - this is a relatively short chapter, but I just wanted to make it to-the-point, and as such I hope the pacing turned out okay and that it is altogether enjoyable for y'all. Please, as always, let me know what you think, especially for this update! I get so few reviews, so I'm prone to worries. :) There's hella action and hella smut, but mostly for the action I wanted to keep everything from getting too rambly; hopefully I was successful. So anywhoodles, let me know what you think, and please forgive me because of reasons! Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the Green Day song of the same name. Sorry that it's ominous as all fuck. Great song though, and very appropriate for the chapter, so as always I was glad to be able to use it. Welp, that's about it. Thank you to everyone that stops by and shows support, much love to y'all! Enjoy!_

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Chapter 32 - Last Night on Earth

Christine

Blinded by angry tears, I stormed into our room and flew straight to the bed, throwing myself atop the mattress before grabbing a pillow and screaming into it like a petulant child. I could scarcely rein in my emotions otherwise, and while I was certain that I was making quite the shameful spectacle of myself, at that moment I could not bring myself to care that I had made such an outburst.

I hadn't meant to overhear Raoul and Erik's conversation, and I certainly wished that I hadn't heard the words which issued forth from my husband. He couldn't leave that night - he _couldn't._ His endeavor was simply too dangerous, and he had promised me that he would not go into the fire alone; in those moments I couldn't bring myself to relinquish the absurd sensation that I was being callously abandoned. Oh, I was hurt, to be sure. But beyond that initial feeling of betrayal I was utterly frantic, seized once again by terror at what his actions could mean for us all. He was risking his life, and even so he expected me to stand to the side and allow his reckless behavior. But still, I could not ignore the facts before me even in my desperation; a part of me understood that he was not simply being reckless. I knew exactly what had compelled him to act, that he had no choice but to move forth the way he did. He had no other options before him - Vito had certainly seen to that - and once the dust settled in my turbulent mind I realized that we would live in that terrible state of dread and intimidation forever if something did not give. Erik had to go out and face our pursuer that night for our sakes.

I couldn't remain angry - as badly as I wanted to take ahold of him and scream until he changed his mind, I knew that such behavior was not warranted in the end. He was not being cruel or prideful - he had to break his promise to me, and I knew how genuinely unwilling he would have been to do so under any other circumstances. Before long, I accepted what could not be changed. But I could not still my heart's erratic beating at the very real possibilities presented to us. By morning, we would be entirely different people one way or another, and a deep sense of foreboding nearly paralyzed me as I sat alone in our room. I knew I would have to compose myself before my husband returned - somehow, I had to be brave for him as much as myself. I sat upright, steadied myself to the best of my capabilities as I stood, and made my way stoically over to the small table in the corner. I decided that being there would aid me in appearing less distraught than I would have cowering in bed like a little girl.

Erik returned to me some time after our quarrel. I had heard his own outburst downstairs, and I was not surprised by it in the least - but I was heartbroken that he had been reduced to behavior that he long ago sought to put past him. When he entered the room, I saw the ghost of that former man in his eyes, and I knew how steadfastly he was fighting within himself to rein in that darkness. He looked at me warily - even sadly, as if preparing for cutting and accusatory words on my part - before turning to remove his coat and put it on the rack near the door. He then carefully removed the holster and weapon from his person, and I balked at the sight of those dreaded objects. His every move seemed forced, almost mechanical, as if he was just barely aware of himself in those moments of uncertainty; turning to me in only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, he looked truly exhausted even as he was determined. To my continued dismay, he wrapped his arms around himself as he stood - a habit born from years of abuse and violence that he had taken up again recently. Before Raoul arrived with Vito's letter, Erik hadn't made that gesture in years, and I recognized it as an unconscious attempt to protect himself. I couldn't be sure if his need for protection then was from the perils that lay unknown before us, or from my perceived abandonment. I felt terribly guilty that the answer might be the latter.

"I'm sorry, Christine," he said softly, barely meeting my eyes, "For everything."

I couldn't respond immediately - I didn't know quite the words that might bring him peace. I knew how badly he needed the reassurance that I could forgive his flight into the darkness, for his ill-placed sense of responsibility for our misery. I never blamed him for Vito's presence in our lives, and certainly not for his brutal vendetta against our family, but in Erik's eyes his every move in his youth was the catalyst to our suffering. He simply could not relinquish the blame he harbored in himself even with his anger toward the gypsy. He had experienced too many years of darkness to be able to separate blame and justifiable actions. But even as he thought he deserved it, he clearly longed all the while to cast that darkness away from him, to know that his past would not invite my scorn. He needed to know forgiveness in even the simplest forms, and I would give him that - I knew that I had to.

"I forgive you," I said softly. Yet even as I said the words, they didn't seem to be enough to speak for my genuine sentiments.

Beyond that offered mercy - and perhaps even selfishly - I knew that I simply needed to have him close to me again. I needed to have a physical reminder that he still lived, that he was well and strong in my arms. Absently, I realized that I had missed him terribly - in the long weeks since we first took flight from our home in favor of the city, our only thoughts had been toward survival, our tenderness represented for one another in gentle touches and spoken reassurances only. I needed to draw strength from him then as he so desperately needed to take mine into the night, and I suddenly wondered if such strength could be found in shutting out the rest of the world, even if only for the remainder of the day.

Silently making up my mind, I approached him without a second thought, and with a small cry I took him in my arms and kissed him. He didn't react immediately, seemingly frozen into shocked compliance by my actions. But in the span of a heartbeat he wrapped his arms protectively around me, returning my kiss with as much fervor as I extended. We remained in that desperate embrace for a time - the seconds ticked away, but the passage of breathless moments seemed to lose all meaning as we held one another in an expression of our mingled apprehension and longing.

With a sound of regret, he suddenly pulled away from me and said, "Don't. Don't do this to me now, _please_ ," he swept my hair away from my eyes gently before continuing, "I have to go tonight, you cannot convince me to stay like this."

I shook my head, seeing that he had misunderstood my intentions, "I know. And I understand. I just...please, I need you here now. Stay awhile longer than you planned."

He searched my eyes as he held me, seeming hesitant for a flitting moment to give in to my request in an attempt to fend off further pain. But in an instant he gave in to my pleas as his lips met mine again, this time with all the more force on his part. He ran his fingers through my hair, holding on to me as if he feared that I would disappear before his very eyes, and I responded in kind. I never wanted him to leave my embrace, and even though I knew our parting that night was inevitable, I needed that contact with him for as long as possible. I longed to simply forget the world turning around us and pretend that our perils were far and away from our lives in favor of our togetherness.

I longed for _him._

There was no more need to speak, no reason to try to convince ourselves to act otherwise that night. I knew that if what we needed was purely carnal for the sake of our peace of mind - to allow that release from the stranglehold of worry we had shouldered - then we owed it to ourselves and each other to do so.

He sensed my change in demeanor almost immediately. Before I knew what was happening, he had backed me up against the wall nearest to our bed. I held fast to him, returning his affections, but was at first unaware of just how much desperation was in his touch, in his kiss - actions which proved to me that he was just as in need of those blissful moments of feigned ignorance as I was. When comprehension dawned on me at last, I moved my hands over his body, one grasping tightly at his hair while the other moved down his chest slowly before finally resting between his legs. He gasped at the contact, but allowed me to continue my grip of his arousal for a time. I stopped the movement only in favor of my attempt at making short work of his clothing, fumbling with buttons as I worked to expose his flushed skin. He was removing my dress with equal impatience, and it wasn't long until we stood nearly trembling before one another, clothing disheveled and discarded in our abrupt need to find release in one another's bodies. I was dressed only in my chemise by then as he took ahold of me firmly, lifting me to match his height and pressing me against the wall for added support.

"Wrap your legs around me," he all but demanded, his voice low.

I assented to his fevered request without a second thought, and in only a few deft movements he had undone his trousers and entered me. He held on tightly, maintaining our balance as he began his slow movements within me. Kissing me again and compelling me to act as well, we two settled into a rhythm that had me clutching at his shoulders in an attempt to not scream with the intensity of the sensations he stirred in me. A moment would pass and he would pause in favor of moving his mouth down my neck, my shoulders, before continuing on with our passionate exchange. We continued on in this fashion for a time, aiming to make every moment, every touch last as long as possible between us. But when our lips joined once more, this time none too gently, I was almost certain that it would be over soon. Yet I still wanted more.

He didn't seem any more eager than I was to have our encounter end there. Setting me down for the moment, he kissed me again - gently, even questioningly this time, gaining my silent assurance that there would be no regret in our joining in spite of the fears that waited in the wings for us - and led me to the bed. When we lay down beside one another, he removed what little remained of my clothing as I urged him to do the same. I reached up and removed his mask last, no longer feeling hesitance or dread on his part at the action, but I still took a moment to rest my hand on the marred side of his face - a silent reminder of my acceptance and love for something that had once forced him into hiding. But it seemed as though a lifetime had passed between my fearful regard for him and the adoration and respect that had grown between us over the years which defined our relationship, and not for the first time I was grateful for that change in us. We were no longer the same people as at our beginning.

We quickly returned to our lovemaking, saying little and once again allowing our actions to speak for themselves instead. There were no words that could have passed between us that would have meant as much as our shared touch, our expression of the devotion we held for one another even after our many years together. At length, I positioned us so that I was on top of him, and in doing so I felt him drive that much deeper into me. Gripping my hands in his for support, he moved in a way that allowed me to find my own rhythm, and we fell into step with each other once more.

"Don't stop," he said, closing his eyes tightly.

I continued on in that fashion for a time before he pulled me down atop him once more, kissing me slowly as he wrapped his arms around me and rolled us so that he was hovering over me carefully. He entered me again, moving with a driving force that was nearly brutal in its intensity, yet he did not hurt me. Rather, his actions and measure of passion inspired a further desire in me that allowed me to move with him without inhibition - I held fast to him, spoke his name as he whispered sweet nothings to me, touched his face and his body as if he was the only thing in the world that mattered. In those heated moments, he was everything to me - the sun, the moon, and the stars all mine for the taking as he offered that and more in his own heart. He moved to kiss me again, coaxing my mouth open against his and allowing our tongues to meet in our ecstasy. I felt as if I couldn't breathe, but in the most marvellous way - he had always been able to ignite that fire within me, and as the afternoon faded into the evening, as the sunlight unerringly cast the room in its golden glow, I repeatedly felt myself coming undone at his touch.

There was a point however, when the room was almost dark, that he gently halted our movements, holding tightly to me as he forced me to focus only on his gaze.

"Don't forget this feeling," he whispered almost urgently, echoing his own words from nearly a decade ago - from the first time we had come together amid the turmoil of our lives.

Breathless, I paused as he did, looking into his eyes as he spoke to me. It was as if he was pleading for me to see beyond the outwardly simple words to something far more permanent. I knew almost immediately what he meant to convey, even as I was reluctant to allow the gravity of that knowledge to reach the forefront of my consciousness. But in my heart, I could plainly understand his appeal of love, a final request to have his life mean something more than the wretched events leading up to a potentially violent end...It was a goodbye. No, I didn't want to acknowledge his words for what they were, but I knew then that I had no choice - without his needing to be explicit, I just _knew_ ; something deep in my soul called me, compelled me to realize the impact of his words. He was saying goodbye in the only way he knew how, refusing to acknowledge it directly yet still saying his farewells then in the event that he was taken from me by morning - if everything we had come to experience was stolen from us. With no small amount of sadness on his behalf, I realized that _he_ didn't want to be forgotten.

I moved my hands away from his shoulders and over his chest, resting them gently over his pounding heart. He put his own hand over mine and grasped them tightly, a gesture of mingled reassurance and imploring desperation. In the subdued hues of the twilight around us, I saw his scars in agonizing detail as they marred his pale flesh, the startling and lingering proof of his long-suffering. In them I saw one of many reasons for his need to hold onto me for as long as possible, to not be yet another flitting and awful moment in someone's life. Yet for as much as humanity had tried to defeat him, he would not be conquered. Even in his lowest moments, even when he had convinced himself that the battle would never be in his favor, he carried on. He fought for a life without the pain brought about by something over which he had no control, and in doing so he had built something extraordinary to share with me. Long ago he had given me the beautiful flame of his existence that burned brightly with my own - a flame that would not be snuffed out by violence and cruelty. He gave me his music, his genius, his love; together we created our children, built a respectable and even relatively normal life against all odds. Amid our greatest triumphs we fought through seemingly endless tragedies, only to always find redemption in one another in the end. How could I forget him?

"Never," I whispered my simple response, hoping fervently that he could somehow understand what I could not possibly put into adequate words.

"I love you," he said, touching his forehead to mine adoringly, and I immediately knew that he had indeed seen into my heart.

He captured my lips once again with his own, this time far more tenderly as he accepted my words. We said no more then - there was nothing _to_ say in those moments that followed his hidden and unexpected plea. The time would surely come that we would have to make our peace, to acknowledge our unwilling separation, but we were not yet ready even as we became one. We simply needed to continue to hold one another in that silent promise of devotion.

He began moving again slowly, bracing himself with one arm near me and taking ahold of the bedstead with the other, ensuring that his full weight would not hurt me as our hips crashed against one another, falling in time and moving together with a steadily increasing intensity. After a time I felt him reach his climax as I did, and I nearly screamed myself at what I was experiencing. I clasped my hand over my mouth, but he moved it away quickly, kissing me deeply as his throbbing desire was spent within the loving familiarity of my body. Even when it was done, we remained kissing, hands entwined and almost entirely unwilling to part from that caress after what we had experienced together. In time, he moved to lay alongside me, taking me in his arms protectively. Night had fallen completely by then, harboring unseen dangers in its all-encompassing veil of darkness, but even so it seemed for all the world that nothing beyond our fervent embrace could touch us.

But I knew that the blessed illusion of serenity could only last us for so long, and suddenly I felt as if I was surely going to lose him forever, all in one fell swoop. I was not ready for that parting, nor did I know how to be. As he moved to brush my hair away from my eyes, I turned to look at him directly.

"How can I say goodbye to you?" I whispered.

"We won't say goodbye, not tonight," he said determinedly, "This _is not_ the end. I'll come back to you, I promise."

I sighed, settling in as close to him as possible and making a mighty effort to be soothed by his words - even as a soft and treacherous voice whispered tauntingly in my mind that he would be leaving my side before long. _Anything_ could happen to him in our separation, and the prospect of too many unknown factors that could potentially bring him harm left me nearly in tears. Regardless of his purposeful words and his honorable attempt to comfort me with his promises, I could not relinquish the dread I felt for the coming dawn. But I had to let his assurances reach my heart then - I couldn't give in to my fears so long as doing so could only serve to inspire further terror in him as well. He needed my strength, my confidence, and I would give that to him no matter how painful doing so would be to endure. When I met his eyes again as they shone distinctly in the moonlight, I found my resolve reinforced once more.

"I love you, Erik," I said softly, and as he smiled in response, all at once there was nothing left to say between us just then.

That night, if all I could do for him was to stay in his embrace as a continued promise of my heart and courage, then I would do so without allowing a second thought to reach the forefront of my troubled mind.

~~oOo~~

Erik

There was once a time in my life that I was sure that love and happiness would be barred from me forever. I did not deserve either, and I would be wise to remember that. The notion left me bitter, constantly teetering on the edge of stubbornly surviving out of spite and wanting to end it all if only to kill the pain. I could not escape the demons within me which sought only to remind me that I was nothing more than a monstrosity, further compelling my already-warped approach of humanity to shape me into the madman that I was beneath the Opera Populaire.

Yet somehow, _somehow_ and for reasons entirely unknown to me even now, I was granted a reprieve in that suffering. Meeting Christine and gaining her acceptance had proven to be my saving grace, my redemption where I thought I could only know scorn, and over the years I had done everything in my power to repay her in even the smallest ways for her singular act of bravery on my part. As I held on to her sleeping form the night I planned to confront Vito, I felt as if I held all the goodness of the world in my arms. If there was any miracle that she had performed in my life, it was bringing me out of my darkness in favor of something more - for giving me a life worth living, and I would carry that strength she extended to me as I faced off with the worst ghost of my past. It didn't matter then whether or not I deserved her love; I would fight for her simply for the fact that I owed her my life in more ways than I could describe.

I had forced myself to sleep for a time, but in the end it was truly no more than a restless doze, riddled with intense nightmares that left me nearly disoriented upon my waking. I felt utterly exhausted when I rose, still nearly trembling at the echoes of those disjointed images within my distraught mind. I still had hours before dawn by the time my consciousness returned to me entirely, and I knew I had to leave the relative safety of the inn and the protective arms of my wife long before the sun rose. I needed the cover of darkness to aid in the success of my attack against Vito, and I wanted as much time on my side as possible for that endeavor. But it was with a heavy heart that I disengaged myself from Christine's arms in order to ready myself for the journey to the fairgrounds. I was loath to be parted from her, but I had no other choice. I readied myself as quickly as possible in the darkness, deciding that turning up the lamp posed too much of a risk of waking her. I didn't want her to see me walk out of that door - we had already said everything we needed to earlier, lost in one another's bodies and silently praying for just a little more time together. But we would not be granted that any more than we had been when we prepared to say goodbye to Charles, and so instead we only had to make peace with what we had. If that had in fact proved to be our last night together, I only hoped that my words would somehow settle into her heart.

Once I was dressed, I paused before taking my leave and looked once more at my beloved wife sleeping in a bed that was not ours, likely dreaming of the bloodshed that I was about to face. My guilt came flooding back to my consciousness, and I wanted nothing more than to spare her from further pain on my behalf. I would see to it that she no longer suffered at the hands of my enemy. I moved closer to her, careful to remain silent for her sake; almost unconsciously, I removed my wedding ring and the chain around my neck, and carefully added the band to lay beside the cross. Gently, I moved Christine's hand to that I could reach her palm, and gingerly placed the items of the greatest value to me against her skin. I closed her hand around the mementos, allowing my own hand to linger around hers for an instant and knowing that she would find them when she awoke. It was merely a rare bout of superstition, of course, but I needed a part of me to remain with her in the hours that separated us - a silent promise to her that I would return somehow. Standing beside her slumbering form, I bent only long enough to kiss her temple and whisper words of love, hoping all the while that doing so might reach and alleviate any nightmares she might have known that night.

I took a deep breath and finally compelled myself to move from the room as if I was merely an apparition. By then, I was more prepared than ever to meet my fate, determined to cast aside any lasting feelings of guilt and misgivings in favor of constantly reminding myself of why I fought against my past in the first place.

I made my way downstairs as quickly as possible, mindful to remain silent in my departure. Only the innkeeper remained under the roof just then - the other guests having checked out after their dinner in the long hours preceding my departure - but I didn't want the man to see me exiting and assume that I intended to make trouble under the cover of darkness. It was bad enough that he had made no secret of his decision that I was untrustworthy - I didn't want him to have any excuses to bother Christine in my absence. Winding my way through the mingled shadows and moonlight streaming through the uncovered windows, I found Raoul asleep in the common room, stationed and ready for my arrival as promised.

"Wake up," I said only loudly enough to capture his attention.

He stirred, immediately alert, "Are you leaving now?"

"Yes," I said shortly, and he followed me outside before speaking again.

"I know you won't change your mind now," he said, shivering against the cold and wrapping his coat more protectively around himself, "But even so, I _can_ go with you."

"I'd rather you remained here with Christine. Do you have your weapon?"

He moved his coat just enough to reveal a gun in its holster, similar to mine, "I do. Be careful out there. Try not to get yourself killed."

"God willing," I said distantly.

He extended his hand to me, and I shook it - albeit hesitantly - as a sign of good will in spite of our less-than respectful origins with one another. In the years that separated us from those darker days at the opera house, our quarrels against each other had become commonplace and inconsequential, and it seemed that with the aid of time and mutual understanding we had forged a grudging, unspoken agreement of friendship after all. I was grateful for that, as well as his for assistance to my family now. Admittedly, I knew without a doubt that I could trust him.

" _Be careful,_ " he repeated emphatically, and I could only nod in response.

~~oOo~~

The night air was bitterly cold as I rode horseback away from the city that had been my first home after leaving Paris, and my chest ached with each inhalation as my breath came before me in plumes. But I ignored the constant discomfort, forcing myself to focus solely on my task. It took some time to navigate through the forest beyond the outskirts of London and into the gypsy camp with only the moonlight above me as a guide, and as it stood I was tense and impatient to reach the next part of my journey. The horse I had borrowed was unfamiliar with me as a rider, and as such it was a slow trek. I didn't want any more hurdles between me and my ultimate goal - but in the end it would serve me well to maintain a determined patience, and with that thought I was able to regain my composure on countless instances during the night. Once I was finally rewarded for my efforts and made it to my destination, I wasted no time in locating one of the gypsies that had remained on guard for the evening. I intended to question him rather than search blindly through the camp - I did not want to chance Vito escaping were that the case.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked, standing quickly and obviously shaken by my unexpected presence and admittedly unusual appearance. To him, a man coming about in the night wearing a mask likely meant a vicious robbery, and I didn't want him to lash out violently against me to prevent any such losses. But I had remained extremely anxious by that point, and I knew that any good manners I might show would be short-lived. Even so, I responded quickly to ensure that there would be no misunderstandings on his part.

"I need you to tell me if a man named Vito has been here tonight," I said.

He visibly relaxed as he shrugged, "I don't know."

"You _do_ know," I said fiercely, angry that he was making it that much more difficult for me to proceed, "He's a rogue, he would certainly stand out among your kind. I have it on good authority that he had settled himself here recently, and I need to know if he remains now."

"What is your business with him?"

"He poses a great threat to myself and my family, and I mean to apprehend him."

He shook his head uneasily, "I don't make it a habit to release members of our own to outsiders."

Losing all semblance of patience, I took him by the throat and forced him against a wooden post, effectively immobilizing him and scaring him into submission as I said, "He is _not_ a member of your clan, and I know he's been causing you trouble, so don't pretend to care about his interests. This is a matter of life and death, and if you do not tell me his whereabouts here, I promise that I will not have mercy on you."

"Alright, please! I'll tell you," he coughed when I released him slightly, and nodding in the direction he meant to convey he said quickly, "Over there, in that cluster of tents. He stays there at night most often."

I pushed him away from me forcefully, knowing that he would survive my methods of persuasion as I made my way deeper into the folds of gypsy society. I was deeply unsettled by the constant reminders of my agonizingly tortured youth which surrounded me then like a shroud, but I made a mighty effort to dismiss my feelings of trepidation. I would not be rendered helpless on those grounds - not again - and I could not allow my discomfort at my eerie and vivid memories to distract me then. I approached the dying embers of the campfire that had burned out long ago, eyeing the surrounding caravans thoroughly and keeping my hand on my gun in preparation to defend myself at any moment.

Suddenly, I heard the first shot ring through the air some distance ahead of me. I quickly ducked away from the danger, but ultimately it was an unnecessary effort. The shot was not fired to be lethal, but rather as a warning - a signal of another man's location. Vito himself was taunting me then, I was certain, having begun his game the moment he became aware of my presence in his midst. By the time I comprehended what was happening, he was already attempting to escape me, and I did not have time to find and capture him - riding on horseback, he raced past me and into the forest beyond the sleeping fair. Enraged yet continuously determined, I ran full-out back to my own mount and took off immediately behind him.

He gave chase for a time in the opposite direction from which I had earlier arrived, taking advantage of my unfamiliarity with that part of the terrain. At the outset he was simply darting in and out of the trees and maintaining his distance, and although I was able to keep him well within my line of sight, I was quickly growing frustrated with his behavior. But even so, I reminded myself that he had planned for as much, and hand undoubtedly expected me to react recklessly in return. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction, and certainly wouldn't relinquish the opportunity to gain the upper hand - not with so many lives in the balance, not when I had him so close to his demise. I would be as relentless in my pursuit as he was, even as the effort proved to be exceedingly difficult under the present circumstances. Under the veil of trees above, the moonlight only shone through sporadically, and as such I was having trouble determining his direction for a time. Moreover, he seemed aimless in his continued effort to escape me, going in a direction that was meaningless to me but for his chance to disappear. If he only meant to tire me out before ultimately attacking, he was sorely mistaken. I would outlast his cruel determination for as long as it took to apprehend and kill him once and for all.

It wasn't until he made it clear the direction he was headed that I felt my heart skip a beat in dread. In an abrupt hauling of his horse's reins away from his original trajectory, he was finally going toward the city once more. I had known that he would make that shift in direction eventually, would locate Christine once he arrived, but it had been my plan to capture him long before that factor came into play. I had not expected him to handle his mount in a way that ensured his swiftness, and as such I was at a marked disadvantage riding a horse that was reluctant to obey me. If I did not incapacitate him and end his miserable life before he had the chance to find my wife's exact whereabouts, then she was certainly in immediate danger. My heart seized in terror and I nearly changed course in favor of attempting to head him off, but I knew that doing so would be impossible at the distance which separated us - he could still easily outrun me, and I didn't want to lose sight of him even for a moment if doing so meant one more factor that would give him the key to his victory. Once again I forced myself to keep a clear head. I needed to pull his attention back to me, to buy time and lure him into the range of my weapon - doing so was absolutely critical as more precious moments slipped by.

" _Vito_!" I called, "Leave her out of this!"

He made no response, but rather slowed his horse and turned as if to face me directly. He was still quite a distance ahead of me, but I could clearly make out the distinct outline of the weapon he was brandishing, and with that image I knew I could reasonably take a successful shot from my position. I responded to his obvious challenge by bringing my own gun out of its holster, poised in my saddle and ready to take down my tormenter. As if we were duelling in a cacophony of motion, each of us took aim at the other as my horse barreled in his direction. I corrected my grip on the gun one final time as I pulled the trigger, intending to shoot to kill. I needed only to take him out first...But in spite of my best efforts, I wasn't fast enough.

Three bullets rang through the air - and two found their mark in me.

No, no, _no!_

Crying out into the darkness, I felt the brutal impact of being shot before I became cognizant of what was happening, felt myself falling quickly to the side as my horse spooked and threw me in his panic. I landed upon the frozen ground with enough force to wind me, but the impact was the least concerning impression of the sudden fall to me then. Immeasurable pain was shooting through me instantly, almost blinding in its intensity; when I reached down to my left side, my trembling hand came back before my vision covered in blood. It shone black in the moonlight, but there was no mistaking what it was, and I finally knew then that I was in grave danger. I groaned through gritted teeth at the pain as I lay there stiffly, my hand unconsciously returning to the wound in a futile effort to staunch the bleeding. Once again the icy air felt like daggers in my chest, and this only served to intensify the suffering I experienced from the gunshot wound. I had never known pain of that magnitude, and for several agonizing moments I wasn't certain if I could move from that spot.

But I had to.

If I remained in place, I knew that I was automatically forfeiting my own life and the lives of those that I loved - Vito would be successful in his endeavor to take Christine, to torture her on my behalf and perhaps even pursue my son in the spirit of his vindictiveness. I was determined to not allow that to happen. I had no way of knowing if I had injured him before he kicked his horse back into action, and I couldn't take the chance regardless. I had to soldier on until the end - if I didn't, everything we fought for over so many years would have been in vain, the life that Christine and I had built together would surely have been lost to a terrible and violent end. She and Charles did not deserve that, and I had to continue fighting back against that bleak possibility - broken and bleeding, I had to make my way into the city and seek victory even if I did so with my dying breath. If that time spent in the forest were to prove to be my last night alive, then I would go out of the world in the morning dragging Vito along with me in return for the excruciating torment through which he had forced us to live.

Clutching my side, I looked over to the horizon just as the sun began to rise, sweeping the veil of starlight away from the sky like a vast torrent.


	33. End This Demon Dream

**Author's Note:** _Just a few more chapters left, three and an epilogue to be exact. Please remember to let me know what you think. The title for this chapter comes from the song "Confrontation" from Jekyll and Hyde. It's a great song alone even if you've never seen the show, so make sure to check it out when y'all get a chance. Thank you all again for the support, and enjoy!_

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Chapter 33 - End This Demon Dream

Erik

Losing the seemingly endless portrait of starlight above irrevocably marked the ushering in of a new day, undaunted by the nightmare in which I found myself and holding every possibility of a triumphant outcome or a tragic conclusion. Alone and devastatingly injured, I feared that my destiny would be the latter.

The world around me was eerily still, the early morning sunlight too weak to banish the chill from the air, adding yet another dark element to my already labored breathing. As such I was certain that I would never feel warmth again - that I would surely die before knowing any modicum of comfort. Time was slipping by unmercifully, each second ticking closer to my defeat, every beat of my heart propelling me away from the victory that would save more than my own life. I could feel the blood steadily leaving my body, its presence hot and fearsome against my chilled skin. My vision was swimming in and out of focus when I finally compelled myself to stand rigidly upright, unnerving me deeply and making each forced movement feel far too slow; but I would not allow myself to dwell on those startling facts - I did not have that luxury. I refused to think of the consequences of my failure if I allowed even the briefest hesitation to occur as I continued my pursuit. Instead, I stubbornly retrieved my weapon, found my horse, and laboriously pulled myself into the saddle. Only when I was certain that I wouldn't fall from the mount did I kick him into action urgently.

Vito's deplorable aim proved to aid me in the end, even if it was only for the fact that he did not kill me immediately. Although it clearly wasn't his intention, his inability to fire a fatal shot had at least allowed me to continue my baleful pursuance of him. I didn't dare think of the consequences had the bullets found their mark in my heart, between my eyes...I _couldn't_ think about it. I had to forget the very essence of my present circumstances - the consuming pain, the overwhelming fear, the utter injustice of it all. I had to cast aside all cognizance beyond returning to Christine and finding Vito if doing so ultimately meant apprehending my attacker and putting an end to his savage vendetta once and for all. I had to do so for my wife, my son - for the life that we had built together after too many years of pain and uncertainty. Christine and Charles would not be taken from me, could not be forced to live through the inhuman torture that I had known for far too long. They did not deserve that kind of suffering; I would die before I allowed their spirits to be broken. As it stood presently, Christine's safety was the most immediately threatened, and that fact alone was enough to further embolden my determination and leave me seething at the consequences Vito presented should I fail.

A blinding rage - the likes of which I had not experienced in years - quickly overtook my senses at the repeated thought of his desire for destruction, and as such I allowed that rage and its strangling hold to clutch at my heart. Doing so served to propel me onward that much more in spite of the blinding pain that fought for equal presence in my consciousness with each heavy footfall of the horse's galloping procession. It would have been all too easy to give in to that pull toward the darkness and curl within myself in a futile attempt to ward off that devastation within my body; but I could not afford to waste any more time. Vito had seen to and relished in my torment for too long in my youth, had aided in the vicious twisting and warping of my childhood into something that would shape me into a dark and malevolent being, and I refused to allow that history to repeat itself for my wife and son. Vito had been given ample chances to harm me - he would _not_ have my family. Knowing that, I had to forcibly forget the very real fear of my bleeding to death before I could reach London-proper, and it was only in allowing my anger to give way to that turbulent and enduring need for revenge that I did not remain rooted in my place in the snow.

On my journey through the forest I was only dimly aware of the effects of the rising sun on the world around me, of the path that led me to Christine's last chance at a safe shelter - I simply pressed on, heedless of all else beyond the immediate dangers looming in the wings. I had no way of knowing if Vito knew of our exact whereabouts, but I knew that if he had even the slightest inkling of our location, he would waste no time in finding it on his path to destruction - I had to get there first. When the inn came into view, I just barely reined in the horse properly before dismounting, stopping some distance away in an attempt to avoid alerting Vito to my presence if it came to pass that he was already there. Grasping desperately at my last shreds of hope to the contrary and determined to either head him off or capture him, I found myself running full-out in spite of the agony it caused to my injury.

I clutched at my side once more as I rounded the corner that brought me to the inn's entrance, and I was horrified to see that Raoul had been bludgeoned and therefore rendered immobile before I came upon him. It was clear that he had made a mighty effort to defend himself and the occupants of the inn, but in the end it seemed that he had lost the battle - Vito was certainly somewhere inside, and my heart seized in terror at what that meant. Raoul was quickly regaining consciousness, to my immense relief, and rising unsteadily when he recognized me. When comprehension dawned in his eyes at my fast approach, he wordlessly joined my progression without needing to be told how crucial our timely action would be, and we both swiftly returned to the shadows inside.

Upon our arrival, Vito was attempting to pull Christine through the abandoned corridor which served as a reception area. But she steadfastly fought against him, and it was clear that he was struggling to maintain his control over her. Raoul and I had our weapons drawn when we entered, each careful to avoid firing too soon and hitting Christine with any wayward bullets. Vito was momentarily distracted by our presence, wild-eyed and coldly calculating all the while, but even so making the mistake of pausing as if he were reconsidering his next move. It was during those fleeting seconds that Christine took her opportunity to strike out against her captor, hitting him squarely in the jaw with an impressive force that ultimately separated the two of them effectively. Distantly, I was proud that she could hold her own in a physical conflict, but I could not revel in that pride in her for long - I had to act before the gypsy had the opportunity to recapture his prey.

I moved without hesitation, heedless of the extreme vulnerability that being shot had caused me. Before Vito could regain his footing, I forced him against a wall, violently pinning the hand which wielded his gun up and away from any of us and shoving my own weapon into the hollow of his throat with enough strength to elicit a strangled cry from him. Nevertheless, he struggled against me, quickly eroding my remaining strength and effectively rendering Raoul wholly unable to take proper aim behind me. But I wouldn't let the gypsy gain the upper hand again, and with a cry of rage on my part the battle continued to unfold only briefly before I pinned my opponent once again; I pulled back the hammer of my weapon, now poised against his temple, ready to fire and commanding Raoul to do the same. I glanced back to see that my ally had carefully taken aim, Christine just behind him and - mercifully - blocked by her childhood friend from the bullets of my adversary. Raoul remained in his position, knowing without having to be explicitly told that I needed him to guard Christine rather than to help me defend myself. Her safety was paramount to us both, and not for the first time I was grateful for his assistance. Satisfied of my wife's immediate safety, I turned my attention back to Vito, and I was angered beyond reason to see him seething past me.

"It's a pity that you're going to be a widow," he said in a tone of cold mockery, meeting Christine's terrified gaze.

"Erik?" she called for me in a questioning, trembling voice. But I could make no response then - I had to turn the gypsy's attention away from my wife.

" _Do not_ look at her, you miserable little bastard," I said fiercely, shaking him violently at his abject refusal to comply, "Look at me. _Look at me_!"

"I am looking," he said in a low voice, meeting my eyes with a hatred that matched my own, "And I see a monster before me. You belong in a cage."

"I _escaped_ that cage," I replied stubbornly, absently wondering at his need to fill the air with words. It seemed that he was determined to taunt me until the bitter end, and I could not say that I was surprised, but I would not give him the satisfaction.

"Perhaps, but still you're going to die today."

"So be it. But it won't be in vain, it was worth it to know that you lost this battle," I said, my voice giving way to a twisted and desperate sense of triumph, "You wasted _years_ of your wretched life coming after me. You threw your life away, and all the while I lived. I _lived_ , and I know that makes you burn."

He made to disarm me once more, cursing my name and shouting an animalistic cry of madness as the truth of my words seemed to resonate deeply within him. He lashed out with all the violence and hatred of his upbringing. But somehow, in spite of circumstances very much against me and with a final testament to my scarcely remaining strength, I grabbed him by the collar before he made any successful attacks against me, fervently avoiding his striking fists as he flailed to recapture his balance at my abrupt retaliation. So similar to the day at Larwin Square, I gained my steady footing as he lost his, kicking him away from me - seething all the while at the utter turmoil he had brought down upon my family. Finally, I took aim carefully, determined to see my victory through to the end and wordlessly signalling my companion to raise his weapon alongside my own. Raoul fired as I did, each of us hitting our mark with a cold efficiency. The world narrowed down to the twin cracks of gunfire, the sickening sound of Vito's body hitting the floorboards, and then a sudden and nearly deafening silence.

It was over.

Trembling, I was only dimly aware of anything else around me as I made my way quickly to the corpse, absently noting that a bullet had struck him between the eyes. Whether that bullet was mine or Raoul's mattered little - regardless, in the end it served as a dark and fitting vessel of execution for the unforgivable criminal. I kneeled stiffly to check for a pulse - even though it was outwardly clear that the man before me was gone, I had to make sure for myself; my stress-addled mind would not relinquish the notion that the gypsy would somehow continue to pursue me, to haunt me even in death as he had in life. But there was no rhythm beneath my fingertips, of course - no signs of life whatsoever - and it was only with that knowledge that I was able to breathe an unsteady sigh of relief. For so long had I loathed and feared the man and everything his life of depravity represented, had been forced too many times to run from his evilness as I shouldered the endless burdens of my own sins that the end of his life heralded an incomparable sense of consolation for me. As I stood upright, I felt no guilt in my extreme lack of regret at killing him. Not after all that he had done in the name of vengeance - not after I had been granted a life that had offered me so much more than the darkness of my past. As suddenly as he had reappeared in our lives, he was gone.

It was _over_.

I turned back toward Christine and Raoul cautiously, observing each of them as they looked upon the scene with horror and unmasked fear shining in their eyes. By that point, they were still unaware of what had happened to me, and therefore seemed for all the world unsure as to how to move forward from what they had just witnessed. But even as I fervently regretted the circumstances in which we found ourselves, I suppressed the pang of guilt I felt on their behalfs - I had far more pressing matters to attend to before any of us attempted to sift through the horrors of that morning. At the forefront of my mind - as I dismissed the ever-increasing urgency of my situation and sluggishly began to wonder if I were growing delirious from blood-loss - I needed to know above all else that my wife was truly safe. I needed to take her in my arms as proof that she had indeed _survived_. By then, my heart had begun pounding so forcefully that for a terrifying instant I was certain that it would escape my chest in a violent cacophony of agonized rhythm. The extent of my blood-loss was becoming more apparent with each passing second; but even so, all I wanted then was Christine.

As I moved to approach her and Raoul, a too-heavy footfall jarred my injury, and I clutched at it quickly, closing my eyes tightly against the pain before attempting to right myself once more as I continued to walk forward determinedly.

"Are you hurt?" I demanded, trying to keep my voice even and ultimately failing.

She shook her head, looking hatefully at the dead man behind me before assessing me and meeting my eyes, "You're bleeding," she said in a shaking voice, rushing forward.

"He shot me," I said bluntly, continuing to hold one hand to my side and halting her progress with the other. Every touch, every forced breath seemed to ignite a new wave of pain in me, and as I grew once more aware of and startled by the blood-loss and dizziness, I was reminded forcefully that time wasn't in my favor, "Come away from here."

Raoul and Christine flanked me on either side, the former firmly taking ahold of my arm once he realized how quickly I was losing stability and coherence in my actions. It shocked me how rapidly my body was failing me. By the time we three made our way to the common room, I was gasping for breath, each inhalation of air coming to me sharply and sporadically. Although I made a mighty effort to move hurriedly, every footstep felt torturously weighted until I was nearly being dragged away from the recent scene of destruction. What little strength I had maintained upon my arrival was quickly sapped from me during the altercation, coupled ferociously with the time spent winding my way through the forest and the outskirts of the city. But the effects of being shot glared alarmingly and undeniably at me once the gypsy was finally dead, alerting me to the fact that my hard-won reprieve from unconsciousness had expired the moment my battle against Vito was successfully conquered. We were hardly in the room before I found myself swaying heavily where I sought to take yet another step - the room spun around me severely, my vision darkening at the edges, and I knew then without question that I was very desperately in need of help.

Suddenly, it seemed as though the world was falling away uncontrollably. In an instant - merely a heartbeat later - I was dimly aware of myself plunging sideways, spared from a forceful impact only by Raoul gripping both of my arms tightly and easing me down.


	34. So I Can Rest My Head

**Author's Note:** _So sorry this took so long, too much shit going on here at home. But I did the thing, and finally a new update is here. And it's about damn time. Thank you once again to everyone that's reading and reviewing! You always make me smile! Also, please bear in mind that there are **two more chapters left, plus an epilogue**. I really like to be sure I wrap things up properly. Please let me know what y'all think of this chapter - I was playing around with some new concepts and I'd love to know if I was able to pull an emotional response from the readers. Also, I do hope that consistency, pacing, and realism turned out right. I worked for a long time on this one to make it both enjoyable and medically accurate, so do let me know if I was successful. Finally, the title of this chapter comes from lyrics to the song "Rest" by Green Day. Fun fact, this song was one of their very first, from their first album __1,039/Smoothed Out Slappy Hours. Like, this shit is older than me lol But it's a fantastic song, one of my favorites from the band's early work, and I absolutely love the imagery - so much so that I ended up using some of it here in later parts of the chapter. Perhaps y'all can spot where. ;) Anywhoodles, as always I suggest checking out a lyric video as once again the words really convey what I had hoped in this update. Welp, I believe that is all. Remember, my darlings, to read, review, and enjoy!_

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Chapter 34 - So I Can Rest My Head

Erik

For several flitting and horrifying moments, I saw only blackness before me, felt as if I was drowning in that sudden and insistent pull toward oblivion. But mercifully it was a relatively short-lived phenomenon, a trick of an overwrought mind in a disarming and pivotal instant. In my weakened state, it would have been all too easy to remain within that treacherous embrace of darkness. But the sound of familiar voices calling to me beyond that abysmal realm was enough to coax me from the brink with barely seconds to spare - I knew that I had been extremely fortunate to conquer it then, and keeping myself from going under again was critical. The reality of my situation - the lingering knowledge of the severity and extent of the gunshot wounds, my wife's presence beside me - returned to me in disjointed fragments; only through a haze of the terror and excruciating pain of my steadily worsening injuries was I able to comprehend once more what was happening to me.

Raoul and Christine swam before my vision as I blinked against the brightness of the room - a stark and nearly painful contrast from the dark tide that had been pulling at my mind only a moment before. I was immediately aware that I was very close to losing consciousness once again, but still I fought to keep my eyes open, to remain within the world somehow. I _had_ to - I feared that if I allowed myself to close my eyes once more, I might never open them again, would never see the light of day from that point on. That notion frightened me badly, yet compelled me to fight in equal measure. It felt nearly impossible to do so, but I pressed on in spite of feeling the world collapsing around me; I forced every shuttered breath and willed my heart to keep beating. I observed gratefully that Christine had kneeled with me as I went down, cradling my upper body tightly as she attempted to steady me in her arms.

"I'm going to get help," Raoul said, removing his coat and stooping by my injured side, "You have to staunch the bleeding in the meantime."

In spite of my better judgment, I shook my head frantically at his words, clutching at the wound as I did so and overtaken by the unreasonable notion that if I moved my hand, I would bleed to death on the spot. I knew that I was thinking entirely irrationally - that even in spite of my continued consciousness I was very much actively succumbing to the delirium that had formerly only been waiting in the wings - but I could not convince myself then to allow logic to win out over the encroaching panic. Blood-loss was further compromising my ability to think clearly, and a voice deep within my consciousness screamed that such a lack of clarity occurring held very dire implications for me. I was steadily running out of time - each new symptom I experienced was pulling me into shock, closer to death; but even with that startling and unwavering evidence before me, the very idea of having my wounds tended to nearly paralyzed me in fear.

"You must allow this, Erik," Christine pled urgently, "I know this is painful, I'm sorry."

Finally I nodded - albeit hesitantly - and assented to what needed to be done while emphatically reminding myself to remain calm. It was imperative for me to maintain my focus.

"Brace yourself," Raoul said in a low voice.

Christine pulled my bloodied hand away from my side - mindful of my lingering resistance in her deft movements - as Raoul pressed the fabric against me. I immediately cried out at the contact. In spite of my better judgement and resolve on the matter, I closed my eyes tightly against the new onslaught of pain, writhing and clutching at my wife's hand replacing Raoul's at first before making a mighty effort to remain still. Christine gingerly applied more pressure to the wound, whispering her apologies among insistences of the necessity of her work; but despite the care she took with her actions, her doing so was nearly unbearable to me. I could hardly breathe, couldn't think clearly as my mind fought against a new wave of rapidly encroaching delirium - the only notion that occurred to me in the moments that followed was that I might very well die then simply from the agony. I opened my eyes once more, forcing myself to center my mind on anything else beyond my immediate suffering. Doing so did absolutely nothing to dim the pain, but at the very least I felt confident that I could keep fighting for that much longer.

"Keep him awake," Raoul said to Christine, then to me, "Hang on."

He left the room in a haste, and I absentmindedly wondered if I would see him again. But I pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came to me - I couldn't permit myself even a moment's doubt of my own survival. Christine held fast to me, anchoring me to the world as effectively as present conditions would allow. Terribly dizzy despite lying down, I was breathing raggedly and trembling with an almost violent force by the time I summoned enough strength to turn my head to meet her eyes.

Gasping at intervals, I asked, "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm fine, Erik," she insisted, "What happened out there?"

Another gasp, "Vito ran from the camp," I said, my voice weak, "I tried to catch him, I tried to prevent this, I swear. He shot me, there in the dark. I tried to be faster."

"Oh God," she shuddered, "It's a miracle that you made it here at all."

"He could have killed you," I said ruefully, shaking my head and closing my eyes in remorse, "I should have been faster...I took too long - "

" - Don't think about it. Just stay awake, you need to stay awake."

"It's hard," I admitted, remembering to open my eyes once again yet knowing my resolve was continuing to waver, "I can't - "

"Just wait now. Help is coming."

I only nodded in response to her determination, leaning heavily against her in a gesture of pure exhaustion. I resented feeling so weak, but even so I stubbornly continued to maintain eye-contact with her. Although she held onto me tightly, she spoke to me in a soft tone, coaxing me to remain conscious by the steady sound of her voice. She wouldn't relent, and as the dreadful moments passed I found that I couldn't give in to the looming and endless darkness threatening to consume me once again, as easy as it would have been for me then to simply slip away from her. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was absolutely terrified by what was happening to me. But even in my agony, even in my determination to survive, I was so tired - I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and cease to feel, cease to struggle in favor of resting my broken body. I knew that I couldn't, that it was imperative that I remain with Christine somehow, but even so it seemed impossible in those moments of blinding pain and twisting thoughts. Nothing made sense - the world around me once again seemed disjointed and frightening, and with each passing second I had to fight that much harder just to keep myself alert and reactive.

A clock ticking in the corner of the room punctuated Christine's words and mocked my agony with its ignorant and commonplace tranquility, the hands moving forward with an unimaginable swiftness and counting down what might very well have proven to be the remaining moments of my life. Yet the pain and dread that painted my consciousness made it seem for all the world as if several lifetimes had passed.

At length, I looked across the room with wild eyes at the upright piano, studying it intensely. I was absently aware of Christine attempting to bring my attention back to her, of her shaking me gently as she spoke my name, brushing my disheveled hair away from my eyes - anything to pull me back to reality once again - but my mind was slow to understand the urgency in her voice, my thoughts wavering by then. For the moment, I could only focus on the instrument before me. _It needs to be tuned_ , I thought distantly, and even in my clouded state of mind the very idea struck me as rather absurd. Its care should have been the last of my priorities, yet in those desperate moments of waiting for help to arrive, it seemed a terrible shame that the instrument would continue being neglected when I was gone.

 _Gone._

And it was a sudden thing, the dawning of a terrible realization that struck me forcefully. With a shudder at that unwelcomed truth, a part of me understood that I truly was going to die that day. In spite of my forced resilience in the wake of disaster, in spite of Christine's best efforts to assist in mending me and keeping us together, I was dying. There was nothing I could do. I desperately fought to deny it, but in that moment I knew that I could not refuse it any longer, could not grasp at that hope when doing so would prove to be futile. I was losing the fight for my life, and quickly. And I cried then, only becoming aware of the tears when Christine moved to brush them away. Her every gesture was so tender, so full of adoration even in her fear - I was devastatingly heartsick by the thought that I would never again experience even the simplicity of her hand in mine when it was all said and done. I knew that, even if the help of a physician arrived within moments, I very likely wouldn't live to see that day's sunset. I wouldn't live to see my son again, to hold my wife close to me.

I was dying.

 _No. Oh God, no. Please._

I did not want to die - I wasn't _ready_ to die, I was certain. After so many years of fighting for and at last finding the happiness and normalcy that had for so long evaded me, I was not willing to relinquish my life - not if doing so would separate me from those that I loved the most. But even in my desperate desire to stay alive, I knew that there was no going back from that point. When Vito reemerged from the blackness of my past and had threatened my family, I in turn had vowed without question to do everything in my power to protect them. I had been willing to sacrifice my own life. And in the end, it seemed that I had done just that in achieving what I sought to accomplish. Vito was dead, and my wife and child could carry on without dread or the continued threat of reprisal from my enemy; that was all I had ever wanted. I had longed to remain by their side for a lifetime, but I knew from the outset what risks I was taking by confronting the gypsy, knew that Christine and Charles deserved no less from me. I was greatly comforted by that knowledge. I would fight for my last breath, until the decision was taken from my hands once and for all, but I realized that I could be content with whatever destiny awaited me. I wasn't ready to die, but I could accept _why_ it was happening regardless.

The pain of my injuries, the terror which clutched at my heart seemed to fade with new understanding. I was dying, and I needed only to make amends, to do the impossible and bid farewell to my soul's companion. Struggling still to draw a full breath, I turned in Christine's arms once more to face her directly, agonizing at the sight of her tears even as she fought to appear brave. So this was the end for us, then? Would this honestly be the last time we met, held on to one another? No, I did not want it to be true, but I understood that I had little choice in the matter; my mind was made up, and I was obliged to speak to her plainly then, to force her to listen to me. She had to know that my heart was with her.

"I love you."

She shook her head, seemingly understanding what had compelled me to speak those sacred words to her, "Don't. Don't say your goodbyes now, Erik. _Please_."

"I'm not so sure if I have the choice anymore," I whispered, admitting to her with a heavy heart what I had so longed to disavow.

"No, you can't leave me. I can't lose you."

"Christine - "

"Why is this happening?" she wept, "After everything we've been through...How could this happen to us now?"

I knew she wasn't looking for an answer - and perhaps there wasn't one to be found in this life - but I spoke regardless, "I don't know the reason. But if it's over, I'm grateful for the time we had," I paused to catch my breath, "It was more than I ever thought I deserved."

"You deserve better than to die like this."

"Vito is gone, you and Charlie are safe. If I die today, it will have been worth it."

"No, _no_. What can I do now?" she asked desperately, "What else? I can't lose you."

How could a heart break so painfully - so thoroughly - even as it struggled to find its next beat all the while? Her words tore me apart as I lay in her arms, slowly bleeding to death even as she attempted to stem the flow beneath her trembling hand. I wanted so badly to stay with her.

"You're already doing everything you can, my love. I'm sorry," I said, my words almost inaudible, "Forgive me. I took too long..."

"Erik - "

"Don't cry. Please, don't be afraid," I said, forcing my voice to be firm. She only nodded in response, turning away for a moment and seeming to compose herself in that instant.

I was absolutely shuddering by then, my body lost to sporadic movements, and I couldn't help but groan against the onslaught of tremors. But by then, I was becoming cognizant of the fact that I was steadily losing the feeling in my hands, that my body in succession was gradually being overtaken by a mist of insensibility. New tears sprang to my eyes as I accepted once again what was unfolding; the evidence was undeniable. I placed my hand over Christine's and held on tightly, frustrated that I could feel almost nothing but reveling in the contact nonetheless. She was so warm, that much I knew - I could almost convince myself that her touch alone would penetrate the icy prison in which I found myself. I held on tighter and allowed myself to cry.

"I know this is painful," she fretted, mistaking my movements for discomfort, " I'm so sorry, darling."

"It's not...It isn't anymore," I admitted, "I feel numb. It's scaring me."

"I'm sorry," she repeated sincerely, "Just stay awake, please stay with me."

"I am," I said softly before adding almost unconsciously, "Always, I promise."

She shifted to hold me closer, to draw my full attention to her. I obliged her silent request with what little remaining strength I could still claim, looking at her for a long moment through the stinging veil of tears in my eyes. But I couldn't look away - I wouldn't. We kissed then, softly and slowly, tears mingling in our shared grief and trembling fear. I was numb, shuddering and fighting for air, but in her arms none of that mattered. Through Christine I could forget the cruelties of reality even for the briefest of moments, and I was immensely grateful for that, for the reminder of her love. She made me brave even as the clock ticked away toward my demise, gave me enough strength to return to the present with that much more resilience. But when we parted, it was with a terrible regret - it would prove to be our last kiss, our last true embrace of that singularly significant nature, and I think she understood that then as fiercely as I did. She touched her forehead to mine, weeping over me as I held fast to her, closing my eyes but still not yet ready to let her go.

Raoul returned only moments later with the doctor and his assistant in tow, each of them speaking in a rush as they entered the room. Their words meant nothing to me at that point; for all of my efforts, consciousness was swiftly failing me by then.

I was distantly aware of being lifted from the floor and moved with hasty efficiency to the nearby divan - it was quickly determined that I could not endure a journey to any proper hospital, and I knew that fact alone held grave implications for my chances of survival, inexorably reminding me of what I already knew. I closed my eyes tightly against each movement of my body, every breath coming in a rapid succession that was alarmingly disorienting, and it was all I could do then to force myself to listen to what was happening around me. I _tried_ to hold on, tried to continue a fight that was quickly becoming futile. As Christine's voice penetrated the miserable haze of my mind, I remembered just what I was fighting for, and I attempted to persevere in spite of the understanding that my fate was already sealed. It was all I could do then.

Sensation returned to me suddenly, dull at first before giving way to a keen insistence. I felt sharp pain as the doctor began his work by examining my wound, but I fought to ignore the distress; it wouldn't do me any good to flinch and struggle against his hand, as badly as I wanted to. In the next moment, I felt my mouth and nose being covered by a cumbersome object, a curiously heavy thing that was instantly pressing against my own mask uncomfortably and reminding me of the unmistakably disturbing feeling of suffocation, and instinctively I tried to move it away. The doctor's distant and commanding voice told me that he was giving me ether, that I had to breathe deeply and allow the induction apparatus to remain in place for the anesthetic to be effective. My remaining logic compelled me to allow its presence for a time - he had to remove the bullets and stop the bleeding, and the impromptu surgery was the only way - but the method of sedation was quickly sapping my remaining strength and cognizance, and I wanted nothing more than for it to be gone from me. Groaning miserably, I moved once again to push the object aside.

"Let it do its work, Erik," Christine pled, holding her hand over mine.

I conceded to my wife again when Raoul appeared behind her, holding a handkerchief to his bloodied head and placing his free hand on her shoulder, "Christine, there are police officers here, we will need to speak with them," he said softly, "Come with me. Let them work."

"I won't leave him," she insisted, holding my hand tightly.

I shook my head, briefly moving the induction mask aside in favor of speaking clearly, "Go. I don't want you to see this."

"You shouldn't be alone - "

" _Please_ ," I requested emphatically, absolutely begging for her departure if only to spare her from witnessing still more horror that day.

She nodded hesitantly before speaking, saying at last the words I so desperately longed to hear, "I love you, Erik."

Eyes shining with renewed tears, she gripped my hand tightly in hers, bringing it to her heart in a silent appeal for strength on my behalf. I marveled at the feeling in my own heart, at the love she extended to me in the contact - her devotion was almost tangible, and I was immensely grateful for its presence. I knew that I would carry it with me into the darkness.

"I can feel your heartbeat," I said tremulously.

My voice was distorted slightly by the induction mask, securely in place once more. But even so, she made it clear that she understood me, offering me a sad smile in response to my words. She nodded again, silently saying her goodbyes as Raoul coaxed her gently from the room and relinquishing my hand only when I forced myself to let go and push hers away. Without her by my side I closed my eyes again, suddenly unable to force away the desire to simply remain adrift between consciousness and the seemingly endless silence that awaited me. I wanted to continue fighting it, felt that I should for as long as possible. But by then I had simply been driven to the point where I had nothing left to give. Ultimately, I lost the battle - I closed my eyes one final time.

~~oOo~~

I am falling away from myself.

Somehow I know that I am between worlds, between heartbeats, lost in a realm that is neither dark nor light - somewhere that simply _is._ This is not a dream; it is my understanding that one does not dream while under anesthesia, and I am aware that it has now come to pass that I am far beyond what the skilled doctor can do to earn my salvation. No, this is not simply a vision brought forth by the enrapturing arms of a dream, but rather some great and vast reality, somewhere caught up between life and death. I have been swept away to a place far beyond any phantasms or fantasies; I am now a part of this place, whatever _this place_ could be said to be, whether it is serving as an unspoken monument to the taking of my soul, or merely one last glimpse at my existence before ultimately relinquishing it. But I know without a doubt that I am no longer alive, yet not yet dead.

It's a strange feeling, wanting to die. And yet there was a time when I longed for that bitter release from the clutches of my suffering, for an eternal reprieve from the ghosts and demons that haunted me and tortured my ravaged soul so relentlessly. There was once a time when my very life was meaningless, so utterly dismal in spite of my yearning to find and create beauty that I was sure that I would never endure long enough to meet even the smallest semblance redemption or comfort - that I would never truly be looked upon with any shred of humanity. I would rather have died a broken man than be made to live as the monster that I had become, the demon that countless abusers had carefully and methodically shaped me into. The sound of a whip suddenly echoes around me, fierce and menacing and painful. There are screams, jeers, merciless hands gripping my throat and beating me into submission, and all at once I am that helpless child once again, my pleas for rescue falling on deaf and uncaring ears. And I want to die. It seems that the past is all around me, its darkness suffocating me one final time, and I decide then that it must be a punishment after all. A monster, The Devil's Child - I am only meant to know sorrow and anger, and I want nothing more than for it to _end_ , for God to cease the cruelty that is His creation of my life.

But as thorough and enduring as I believe my torment is, suddenly its painful force is driven aside, banished by the comforting knowledge that I had killed my demons long ago, that they had been conquered and cast out by the singular acts of bravery extended to me - by Madame Giry, by Christine, by the few good souls that were willing to give me second chances even when I certainly hadn't earned them. My life was granted meaning, purpose. And all at once I know that as in life, in death I am ultimately redeemed. Indeed, it's a strange feeling to truly long for death, but somehow stranger to embrace my life, _to want it_ , to ultimately and sincerely revel in fighting for it - in _living._ And, oh, I lived well until the very end. I could not overlook that.

Christine is dancing before my mind's eye - my wife, my lover, my dearest friend. Lithe and graceful, beautiful without trying, she captivates me as thoroughly in my memories as she had the first time I saw her and every day to follow. For me, she always held her heart in her hands, eternally mine for the taking. I can only pray that I was able to return to her even a fraction of the love that she gave me. Her kindness surrounds me in my dying moments as completely as it did in our shared lives. Her strength is lended to me now, allowing me those fleeting moments of indescribable joy even as I know my heart is marching on toward its final beat. She turns to face me, eyes shimmering in the starlight of eternity, and in an instant all of the painful images of my tortured past race away - they are meaningless, and perhaps then I am able to remember that God is not cruel, for only He could create the person that would capture my heart so completely. Christine brought me to the point that I could conquer the darker parts of myself - she gave me her strength, helped me find my own, and through her my heart is mended. Her redemption is absolute and enduring, and as I face the end, that redemption is all I know.

She dances away, and in turn I fall further into this half-world between the beginning and the end, knowing all the while that it is nearly time surrender to it entirely.

~~oOo~~

I am dying.

I am not so foolish as to believe that a few moments of lucidity mean that a miracle has occurred. I have been simply granted a few final moments to make my peace, to hear the whispered words of goodbye on my behalf. Nothing can save me now, not the doctor's skillful work or my beloved wife's arms around me. Every breath I take now is shallow, labored to the point of pain, yet even so I feel nothing. I count that singular fact as a small blessing. Where only too recently my world had been painted with agony turned to a terrifying numbness, now I am able to rest my head without fear or pain. But otherwise, the world around me now is abstract and meaningless, grasping at fragments of that all-consuming place between living and dying. It is not entirely unpleasant, somehow not frightening, but it is only when Christine is ushered back into the room - when she moves to cradle me in arms racked with her trembling and pleading sobs - that I begin to truly feel again, faintly yet insistently. It is only her touch that matters to me then; everything else is far and away from me, every other merciful hand remote and detached from my consciousness.

Amid Christine's tears I hear the doctor's words distantly, those damning tones of clinical explanation that only serve to herald my death.

 _He won't make it._

I disregard the medical jargon surrounding his declaration simply because I know and understand what those four words mean for me, for my beloved family. I hear Christine's response, my heart aching for her as she pleads for more time, more efforts on my part. But there is nothing more to be done, nothing to do now but wait until I can hold on no longer. She embraces me tightly, and although my eyes remain closed, although I am entirely unable to move or convey my limited awareness to her, the steadfast sensation of her arms around me compels me to fight for every last second that I may be spared - anything to experience each final moment with her for as long as possible. I cannot breathe anymore, cannot think of anything else but her, about the inevitable end. It's so close now. But I am at peace - I would give anything to change the outcome, but I cannot bring myself to harbor any regrets. And it's a strange thing, to catch a glimpse of that endless void before me and feel no fear, no hesitance to let go. The end is there waiting for me, and no longer am I suffering.

I wonder to myself if it will be frightening, if it is Heaven or Hell that awaits me. Will I see Estelle again? Or will I suffer alone after all, regardless of my yearning for salvation? I have no way of knowing now; all I know is that I _do_ feel peace, even triumph. All I had wanted was a normal life, to know love and to have a family to call my own, and in spite of my bleak origins I had been granted just that and more than I had ever dared to dream was possible. And even though that existence had been badly thrown off course, Christine and Charles have still been spared the unjust punishment of my past sins - they will go on living, and it is with that knowledge that I ultimately am able to allow myself to finally begin to drift away from the feeling of her holding me close. I hear my wife's heartbeat, feel her tears, but even as I long to reach out and touch her, to comfort her, I am still rendered motionless.

I am no fool - I know what my life could have been, how devastatingly empty and alone I was before her. I know that I very likely would have been killed by vicious and hateful members of society or have died by my own hand without the strength and salvation she offered me. She saved me from myself, and she saved my life. I would give _anything_ to change the outcome, but no, I cannot bring myself to regret a single moment of my life - not now, not after everything she taught me about humanity. Not after she helped me to reignite the fire within my soul which compelled me to truly live, to be sincerely deserving of that life. Lying in her arms, I know without a doubt that I would have nothing without her - I would have remained a monster, and I would have been none the wiser. She has given me a beautiful death simply by keeping me in her heart, but what matters most now is the life she shared with me, even if it was only briefly. She allowed me to live - gave me a life _worth_ living. My gratitude and love for her is almost too much to bear. I love her more than I could ever describe, and I know that I will take that love with me into that good night ahead of me. When all was said and done, she was worth it.

I am falling away from myself, and I know now that I must let go.

 _Forgive me. I love you._

My final thoughts are of my family, the love and pride I hold dear for my little son; I think of my darling wife, capturing her image like an amulet of protection. Bidding her farewell is excruciating, to be sure, but to have been granted the opportunity to die for her did not require a second thought - I can only hope that she may come to understand that with time. She was worth it - my family was _always_ worth it, that much I could say without a doubt. Fighting for my life had proven to be the more daunting challenge than ultimately giving in to the pull toward eternity. In the end, death was easy - it was just like falling asleep.


	35. You Were No Stranger to the Rain

**Author's Note:** _If you survived the last chapter and have at least somewhat forgiven me, welcome back! I know what I did to Erik and the other characters (but mostly Erik) was pretty damn awful, but it was a plot point on which I did not want to budge. What can I say? I love the feels. Anywhoodles, now that we're here, allow me to remind y'all that there is **only one chapter and an epilogue left**! OMG! I can't believe we're this close to the end. Once again, thank you to everyone that's reading and reviewing and generally being so awesome! You are all appreciated more than I can ever say. Now, please let me know what you thought of this update. Again, I did a lot of research to make everything realistic, so it is my hope that I was successful in conveying that here as well as making the pacing and plot twist (wut) at the end a worthwhile and enjoyable experience. Also note that there is a ***trigger warning** attached to this chapter for suicidal ideations. I realize that I have been remiss in noting similar occurrences in the past where Erik feels this bad, and I sincerely apologize for that. But there are blatant mentions of it here, so please take care if needed. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the song "Go Rest High On That Mountain" by Vince Gill. It is a beautiful song by one of my favorite Bluegrass singers, and definitely worth listening to, especially for getting a feel for this chapter. Welp, I do believe that is all. Please review, and most of all enjoy! _

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Chapter 35 - You Were No Stranger to the Rain

Christine

Erik died in my arms, and with his final breath he took a piece of my soul away with him.

I awoke with a start that dreadful morning alone in the darkness. I had expected the solitude, of course, but even so my abrupt waking evoked a terrible pang of fear at the ominous silence of the room around me. I was alone, and I could not pretend not to know why. Resting in the palm of my hand was Erik's wedding ring and the golden cross dedicated to our daughter, and at the sight of those objects so precious to my husband - pieces of his heart that he felt compelled to leave behind with me - I felt that much more pain. He had left the relative safety of the inn long before to confront our wicked pursuer, the remnants of his past that were far better left forgotten. Yet that darkness refused to relinquish him even after so many years of relative tranquility, and it was solely because of that evilness that Erik was forced to engage in a battle that could very well prove to cost him his life. In the darkness of predawn, it did not escape me what unseen perils lie in wait in the shadows, and I was rendered that much more frightened at the prospects of what was taking place beyond the outskirts of the city.

I readied myself for the day, but I had little else to do with my time afterward - nothing left to do but wait and pray fervently that my husband would return to me unscathed. The eerie grayness of dawn swiftly gave way to a brilliant sunrise, but as ardently as I tried to look upon that golden light as a good omen, something within me felt deeply unsettled nonetheless. Still more time passed before the day truly began to unfold in a rush around me.

Suddenly the silence was broken as I heard a commotion downstairs - the sounds of the angry and confused questioning of the innkeeper giving way immediately to a struggle, and I knew without a doubt that Vito had found our hideaway. But Erik was not there, I knew that much without having to see for myself. I simply knew he had not returned - that the gypsy had somehow gotten ahead of him, for he surely would not have made it this far otherwise - and I was gravely worried by what Erik's absence meant. But at the forefront of my mind was the immediate danger. Erik was still away, and Raoul had not come for me. If Vito made his way upstairs, I would be trapped. I left the room as silently as possible, intending to leave the premises entirely, but my efforts were quickly thwarted - Vito captured me on the stairs, taking ahold of me painfully and dragging me away from safety. I remembered forcefully what Erik had told me about the man's intentions for me, and knowing that I put up a fight with all the strength I possessed until help finally arrived.

I could not tell initially that Erik was so badly injured when he and Raoul appeared in front of me, prepared for the impending standoff with weapons ready to fire. Rather, I felt immense relief at my husband's presence. For a flitting instant, as Erik and Raoul fought against the gypsy, I could allow myself to believe that we would all survive somehow - that Vito would be defeated at last and we could put the past behind us once and for all. But no, in the end we were not so fortunate. When the confrontation was finally over - although Erik had ultimately been the victor in that sense - any last shred of hope I held on to was shattered the moment he revealed what had happened to him. The events which unfurled between his collapse, our tearful separation upon the doctor's arrival, and our final moments together in this world were nothing short of a waking nightmare.

Raoul had led me away from the makeshift operating table with the pretense of allowing the doctor and assistant to perform their work, but I knew that both he and Erik simply did not want me to witness what would unfold in that room. And yet, I wished all the while that I had remained - I did not want my husband to be alone, not when he was so clearly terrified. But I wanted to respect his wishes, wanted to be as brave as he asked of me, and so I permitted myself to be led away from the man I loved even as he fought for his life. His words of love and devotion echoed in my heart during every moment of our separation, words that panged mournfully with tearful goodbyes and the terror of the unknown. They would be the last words I heard from him - unconsciously, I knew that much even as I was so adamantly unwilling to admit the truth. Yet I still clutched at the hope that perhaps a miracle could still occur for us, that Erik would survive in the end. That hope was all I had left, and I clung to it fiercely as Raoul and I spoke to the police, barely listening as he flawlessly wove the tale meant to protect our identities that Erik had been the victim of Vito's robbery gone awry - another hapless victim of a senseless crime.

The gypsy's body had long since been taken away, the beaten innkeeper roused to a grumbling and bewildered consciousness, as Raoul and I waited just beyond the common room for any word, some sign that everything might still be alright. I wrung my hands nervously all the while, ignoring the blood that still covered them. I did not care about that then; I simply wanted my husband to open his eyes, to survive against all odds.

My heart sank when the doctor appeared from the common room, his face grave as he requested to speak with me - he did not bear good news. Raoul followed behind me as the doctor led the way back to Erik, but I was scarcely aware of my companion's presence. I moved forward stiffly - almost unwillingly - hypnotized by the grief promised to me. My eyes were immediately drawn to my husband lying unmoving and broken upon the divan. The doctor's assistant had covered most of Erik's body with a sheet - likely in the hopes of sparing me the sight of the graphic evidence of the unsuccessful surgery that had just taken place - but still the turmoil wreaked within his body was plain, the sheet soaked through with blood. _Like rose petals on the snow_ , I thought distantly. But I would not be dissuaded from approaching his side. I kneeled beside him, taking in the sight of him with no small amount of agony. His skin was ashen, more pale than I had ever seen him before - worse even than he had been during his time living beneath the opera house. When I took his bloodied hand in mine, it was so badly chilled that for an absurd instant I was sure that I was holding ice. He was barely breathing, and when I moved my fingers to his wrist I could hardly detect his weak pulse. The beat was all but nonexistent, the music of his heart rendered unimaginably faint for one formerly so strong.

I returned my gaze to the doctor, seeking an explanation but already knowing what I would hear from him.

"He won't make it," he said slowly, meeting my eyes with true sympathy in his own, "I'm sorry, there was nothing more we could do. He was too far gone - "

"I can still feel his heartbeat," I protested weakly, "You _must_ keep trying."

"Please understand, he won't recover from this," he said, "He has only moments left. Perhaps less."

 _Moments...only moments,_ my mind repeated hopelessly. Such small, inconsequential things to anyone else - far too many take those fleeting instances for granted. I was sure that I had. I regretted every lost and unacknowledged second of my life fervently then, at a time when the clock ticked slowly to a separation that would prove nearly unbearable; I was furious with myself that I had not comprehended that ignorance until it was too late. I wanted to go back in time, to recapture every day and night spent with Erik, to look upon those moments with new eyes if only to behold just how fortunate we were to have been granted a place in one another's lives. But it was impossible, and with only those meager moments left on this earth with my husband, I remembered just how fickle and treacherous the passing of time can truly be. With only moments left until the beating of his heart ceased, I had to somehow say goodbye to him when all I wanted was more time, just a little more - enough perhaps to grant him one last chance, to somehow find a way to do so. _Impossible…_

I bowed my head and cried out helplessly at what lie ahead of me. But as overwhelmed as I felt, I knew that I could not allow even another second to slip by before it was too late to grant my husband the farewell that he deserved. Making up my mind, I stood and moved to sit upon the divan with Erik, gently cradling his head in my lap.

The doctor and his assistant left the room wordlessly then as Raoul approached the scene before him. He said nothing as he laid his hand on Erik's shoulder, looking at him for an instant before closing his eyes. Then, with a nod of farewell to his unlikely friend, he stood silently and made his own departure. It was only the two of us then - one soul facing its untimely passing as the other shattered agonizingly in its bereavement. In those moments I could feel every part of myself breaking, knowing all the while that I would no longer be whole at the end of this nightmarish ordeal. I held Erik tightly, keeping him close to me as I cried over him. In a voice choked by tears, I spoke words of love that I could only pray that he could hear. He remained utterly still; he would not be waking up, and my heart seized once again at the reminder that he was all but gone from me entirely.

His last breath was faint and lingering, no more substantial than a sigh, a whispered prayer. But to me it was as loud as a clap of thunder, mirroring the storm of agony within my own heart. And then there was nothing - no breath, no heartbeat, absolutely nothing left of him. His life was over. He died in my arms, and the devastation that followed resounded so deeply within me that I was sure that I would perish on the spot. I took him up in my arms more securely and sobbed against his lifeless form, cried for him until I could barely draw a breath, but I did not care about my display of grief. My heart was broken beyond repair - Erik was dead, and nothing could be done to change that singular fact, to undo the damage and devastation unleashed in the lives of those he left behind. The room was bright with the promise of a new day, but its relative tranquility absolutely mocked me. It was too _silent_ , surrounded by an unearthly stillness broken only by my cries that gradually turned into hopeless weeping.

It seemed as if the world had stopped turning entirely - and for me, perhaps it truly had.

Erik was dead.

~~oOo~~

I cannot say how much time passed before Raoul came for me, informing me that an undertaker had been summoned to tend to Erik's body and that we could not remain for much longer. Trembling and sick at heart, I still held my husband's unmoving form in my lap, but by then my tears had faded into the silent cries of abject misery. I objected to his words immediately, begging for just a little more time and wondering just how I could ultimately find the courage to leave that room alone.

"Of course," he responded gently, "Shall I send for a priest as well?"

"No," I whispered, "He wouldn't have wanted that."

Perhaps I was directly disobeying the sacred traditions of my faith, but I understood that Erik would have had different wishes on the matter. His relationship with a higher power had always been strained and grudging at best, and he had always been distinctly uncomfortable around clergymen - an innate fear of their unrelenting judgment of his unfortunate visage invariably rushed back from his childhood at each unwilling encounter, and although the priest in charge of my parish did not harbor or preach such archaic views of birth defects, Erik much preferred to do his bidding alone. But even so, he had always held me in a high enough regard to attend confession so that we could marry, to wear a cross for our lost child and pray alongside me as we lit a candle for her memory each year. I wanted to respect his wishes in return, to help shield him from his fears - a last gesture of my gratitude. He wouldn't have wanted a priest, nor did I think he required one; I knew that he had found his peace on his own, that he had come to terms with his life and the circumstances surrounding his death, and even in my devastation I took great comfort in that notion. Somehow, I knew that he had been granted his absolution.

Raoul assented to my request gently, understanding shining in his eyes, before leaving once again. I sighed miserably then, knowing that I could not put off my departure any longer.

With a deep and aching regret, I carefully moved Erik so that I could leave the divan. Once I was standing, I looked upon him once again; I loathed what I saw and made a mighty effort to pull the memory of him standing tall and strong - of the bright eyes and unmasked face I grew to so adore - before me to the center of my mind. I did not want to remember the sight of him in death. With delicate and almost reverent movements, I took his hands in my own once more, closing my eyes tightly against the coldness I beheld. I gripped them fiercely one last time before ultimately releasing them, folding them carefully together over his chest - over his heart. Tears stung my eyes when I kneeled beside him once again, gently smoothing his disheveled hair away from his eyes and forehead. I made sure that his mask was still securely in place, knowing that he would have resented being seen without it and wanting to preserve his dignity as long as possible. I looked over him, heartsick at the sight of the funeral pyre that I had fashioned for him, but knowing all the while that it was my duty to grant him that small favor.

I knew then that it was time to leave - his soul was gone, that was all that mattered in those dark moments. I could not remain by his side any longer, not in this lifetime. Blinded by renewed tears, I leaned over slowly and kissed his forehead, whispering my love for him and hoping desperately that, wherever he was, he might know that my heart was with him. Finally, I made my way to the door, entirely unprepared and unwilling to face the world beyond yet knowing that I had no other choice. Looking over my shoulder, I took one last glance at the only man I would ever love, the man who had so long ago helped renew my spirit and that had done everything in his power to save me when all was said and done. I was so grateful to him, but my gratitude could not outweigh my sorrow as I stepped over the threshold.

~~oOo~~

I could not continue to stay at the inn, nor did I want to. But I was not yet ready to return to the home that Erik and I had shared, could not bring myself to dwell where we had rebuilt our lives in the embers of so many preceding tragedies and where countless memories had been made together.

Raoul invited me to stay in the small apartment that he had taken for the duration of his time in London, and I accepted his offer with weary resignation. It was like stepping away from my own formerly quiet life and into one completely foreign to me, frightening and terribly lonely and entirely incomprehensible. In a near-complete silence all the while, I remained a guest in that apartment only a day or two, just enough time for the initial veil of grief to be lifted long enough to ensure that I could tend to the practical matters that came in the wake of Erik's death. When that time finally did arrive, Raoul escorted me home and accompanied me in bearing the news of my husband's passing to Vera and Iva. Their shock was staggering to me - although they were aware at least to a small capacity of the trouble in our lives at our parting, they certainly were not expecting for me to return a widow. They offered their sincere condolences with the promise that I could call upon them for anything I might need and the insistence that they would come to me often, and although I was touched by their gesture, I could only nod tearfully at their words. The events which necessitated their offers haunted me, and I knew it would be that way for quite some time.

Before leaving the inn, Raoul had assisted me in gathering what few possessions Erik and I had brought along with us, and all the while I balked at handling those that were his yet longed to keep them close to me. When we left the apartment, I held fast to the satchel that had belonged to Erik and now contained those precious items, gripped it tightly to my chest as I made the pilgrimage away from the heart of the city to the quiet neighborhood I so adored. When I opened the front door of my home, I was immediately taken aback by yet another vicious onslaught of pain. The entire house seemed hollow, as bereft of its master as I was, its silence echoing in my heart like a morning bell. Outwardly, everything was the same as when we had closed it up those long weeks before, yet even so I knew that it was irrevocably changed forever.

"Is there anything more I can do for you?" Raoul asked once he had completed various tasks to help me resettle - seeing to the small details of removing drop cloths from furniture and ensuring that I had all the supplies I needed - as I remained standing numbly in the foyer throughout the process, "Anything at all."

"Thank you, but no," I sighed, "I would just like to be alone now."

"If you're sure," he responded uneasily, "I shall tell Mrs. Kipling where I am staying. If you need anything from me, _do not_ hesitate to have her send for me. I'll come round again tomorrow."

I nodded and forced a grateful smile, and he left without another word.

And then I was entirely alone, wretchedly miserable and trembling in a futile attempt to rein in the sorrow that threatened to drown me as forcefully as it had every day - nearly every moment - since seeing Erik for the last time. Standing there alone in our house, I felt disconnected from myself, from my very life; the abrupt upheaval of everything I held dear was jarring and traumatic, and a moment had not passed that I did not resent every bit of evilness that tore Erik away from me, to oblige me to go on living when he had not been given that chance. I couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop thinking about _him_. Realization dawned upon me suddenly that I would have to remain within our home entirely without him that night. It had not occurred to me during my stay with Raoul - as if my mind had outright denied the notion - but it did not seem possible then that I had fallen asleep in Erik's arms only two sunsets ago when now he was so impossibly far away from me. I did not know what to do with myself then, with that endless feeling of emptiness. It hadn't been as staggering during my stay with Raoul, to be sure - I had been too much in shock to let certain realities reach my consciousness. But once again awareness had returned to me, and I was wholly unprepared for what it brought.

After time and another unsuccessful attempt at composing myself, I opted to simply take a step forward, then another, testing my fleeting courage until I had finally coaxed myself into simply walking further into the house. I looked in on the parlor, quickly stepped away from it and down the hallway, then back toward the stairs, all strides taken aimlessly - anything to keep myself moving for fear of collapsing and succumbing to my grief and disjointed thoughts. I simply walked about the house, much as Erik had been wont to do so long ago. And I followed in his footsteps, unable to settle the forlorn beating of my heart, unable to reconcile with what had become of my husband. I could feel him all around me as I wandered; he was everywhere and yet nowhere at all. Even if he was somehow watching over me then, the thought brought me little comfort. He wasn't _there_ , not as I needed him to be. I longed to reach out for him, but I knew that he would never again return my touch. I believed that we would meet again, in another time and another place, but the wait would be far too long for my fragile heart, and I wasn't sure that I could endure the seemingly endless void that separated us in the meantime.

At length I found myself in his study, lingering at the doorway before summoning enough of what remained of my bravery to enter the room entirely. I approached his desk rather cautiously before sitting down and observing it intensely, noting the disarray that marked the creative chaos of its owner. We had left the house in such a haste that Erik hadn't bothered with making sense of the books and papers scattered across the shining wooden surface, and as such I found it in much the same state as it would have been had he actively been working on any given project. Every bit of it shone in his essence, in reflection of the dedication he had to his work. My heart ached at the sight. It was the same scenario when I entered the parlor to gaze upon his beloved piano almost reverently, that instrument which served as the vessel for the creation of the music which had brought us together in the beginning. His compositions lay strewn about, now-silent witnesses to the genius alight in his mind during his every waking moment; he was the only one that could properly bring them to life. Without him, the scores were simply ink and notes upon paper, devoid of the passionate soul responsible for releasing them into the world they way they were meant to be heard. I lifted one lonely composition off the music stand, fighting back still more tears as I traced my fingertips over Erik's handwriting.

 ***** I missed him then with such a fierce and devastating ache that I nearly collapsed on the spot. Swaying slightly, I instead held the score to my heart and covered my mouth with my other hand, barely stifling the broken sob issuing from me. And in one fell swoop, as if I had known all along in the time that separated us, I truly wanted to die then if only to be with him - I no longer wanted to be a part of a world where he did not walk, where the cruelties of mankind would ultimately lead to the events which culminated in his demise. It was unjust, absolutely sickening to me, and I wanted no part of it - not anymore.

An anger beyond words overtook me in that instant - anger at every last despicable human being that had broken Erik's spirit, at Vito for continuing to ensure that misery in his damnable vendetta; and most staggeringly of all then, I was angry at Erik himself. I would feel terribly guilty for it later, but for the time I was absolutely seething with the unrelenting truth that he had ever left me all alone, that he couldn't hold on, just _hold on_ for the sake of our family. I was furious with him as I wanted to be beside him in equal measure, yet the veil which separated us what impenetrable. And for that, for the first time in my life I cursed God - I was too overwhelmed then to find comfort in His presence, in the idea that some circumstances could not be explained in this life. The circumstances in which I now found myself were unforgivable, and I could not be consoled. My parents had been taken from me, then my only daughter, and now my husband. _Too much...too much_. And I wanted to die - I couldn't bear the grief of my life any longer.

It would have been easy enough to stop the beating of my own heart - for a terrifying moment and against everything my faith had taught me on the matter, I very nearly considered bringing forth my own end. _Was this how it was for Erik?_ I wondered absently, remembering my desperation to save him from himself all those years ago. Perhaps it was, but I did not think on it then, rather allowing myself to give in to my own hopelessness. I needed only to find a way to do so, something swift and simple. Still clutching the sheet music so fiercely in my hand that I feared damaging it, I spied an abandoned letter opener on a side table near the divan and swiftly crossed the room to capture it. Beholding its pearl handle and stunningly sharp edge, I could clearly imagine myself using it to meet my bleak desires, to press it against the skin of my wrist just so...I harbored no romantic illusions of suicide, understood the true and loathsome nature of what I was considering all too well, but I could not bring myself to care. I had to do it. I no longer wanted to live, no longer wanted to fight for the strength within myself to do so. Perhaps, even if I did not bleed to death as quickly as Erik had, I might still simply die of a broken heart. And I could hope for forgiveness, that everyone I left behind in favor of following my husband into the dark could come to understand with time. It would have been easy…

I cried out then, the ragged sound echoing in the air around me in a voice that hardly sounded like my own as I threw the letter opener away as if it had shocked me. I couldn't do it, I could not die then.

The image of my son suddenly danced before my mind's eye, and I knew without a doubt that I could not abandon him. If nothing else could penetrate the haze of grief that had nearly compelled me to commit that mortal sin, Charles alone was enough to pull me away from that black precipice. It was bad enough that he had lost his beloved father; I would not make an orphan of him simply to befit the madness born of my agony. I knew all too well of that singular form of heartbreak, and although I knew that he would flourish under Madame Giry's loving guidance, that alone would not be enough to heal the wounds that losing both a father and a mother would inflict upon my innocent little child. I was being entirely selfish. And moreover, I knew that taking my own life would render Erik's sacrifice to be almost entirely in vain. His love for me - for our family - was so enduring that he was able to find the strength and bravery to look the demons of his past in the eye and conquer them. He did so gladly in the hope that Charles and I might have a fighting chance at leading our lives without fear. Erik had suffered the pain of his injuries, had given up the life we had built together for a greater cause, and I knew then that I would have utterly failed him had I taken my own steps into oblivion.

With a tearful sigh of resignation and heavily regretting my moments of weakness, I returned the composition gently to its stand, smoothing out the wrinkles I had formed. I could not die - for my son, for my husband, I would have to soldier on somehow. The problem remained that I was not at all sure how I could possibly do so in the wake of tragedy.

~~oOo~~

I opted to postpone Erik's burial until Madame Giry brought Charles home from France. A part of me simply needed my beloved son to be there alongside me for that terrible occasion, but more so I understood that he would need to attend the service regardless of my own selfishness - he had to say his own goodbyes. Raoul was good enough to make the funeral arrangements and to continue in tending to practical matters in my stead when I was repeatedly rendered incapable of doing so myself, even going as far as to offer to write Madame Giry himself. But I declined on that point. I knew that I had to be the one to give the awful news to her, to ask her to bring my son home at last and to inform her that the person that she had once been kind enough to rescue from his torturous imprisonment so long ago had passed. The heartbreak in her response was nearly tangible, but even so she assured me that my child would be home soon. With little else by the way of hope to cling to by then, I looked forward to that day fervently.

In the meantime, I knew that I was not faring well in my grief - I hardly knew what to do with myself anymore. Although I _had_ resolved to continue living after that terrible first night home, had relinquished and repented my misplaced anger at Erik and at God, I otherwise went about the long and empty days in a near-catatonic state.

I was barely able to convince myself to rise from my bed each morning. Doing so seemed pointless, my time spent going about my days rendered utterly meaningless, and it was often either Vera and Iva or Raoul that tended to the upkeep of the house and forced my continued wellbeing. All the while I was exhausted, yet sleep was nearly impossible for me. Each night since returning home, I would lie upon my bed and feel its terrible loneliness bitterly. With that reminder of my pain, I would dissolve into tears until I felt that I could no longer breathe, always drifting hopelessly into a wakeful doze as a result. But even that never lasted long - I would awaken from horrific nightmares, badly frightened by the images of blood and death that haunted me, and in my initially confused state I would reach over to the other side of the bed in the hopes of seeking comfort in Erik's arms as I had so often before. But each time I was only to be met by nothing more than the cold air around me, a coldness that held onto me like a shroud. And I would remember that he was gone, that his soothing words were nothing but a memory now. It was torture, and with each passing night I felt myself grow weaker and fall ever deeper into my grief, so much so that the daylight hours only served to break my vulnerable spirit that much more. It was a vicious cycle from which I could not escape.

My only comfort by then was that I would be reunited with my son in the coming days. Thoughts of him compelled me to continue on, to keep fighting when everything in me begged for release. But Charles served as a reminder of what I had left to live for - what I _needed_ to live for - and I knew that I must rise every day simply for his sake. I hadn't the faintest idea of what the future held anymore, nor did I give myself the opportunity to consider the endless possibilities lying determinedly ahead in the unknown - but I could resolve to carry on in spite of that painful journey for my child.

On the day of their arrival, I could hear Charles chattering to Madame Giry when they finally came up the path to the front door; Meg, Giles, and their little daughter Sylvia were in tow only steps behind their matriarch. When I glanced out the window to their approach, I noted the solemn expressions on each of their faces, the look of confusion that Charles wore in response to their shared demeanors. Madame had not told him yet of what awaited him upon his arrival - I had requested to leave that bleak task up to me. But seeing them then, the remaining members of my family whose presence was accompanying a horrific loss, I experienced a terrible moment of doubt whereupon I wondered _how_ I could speak with my son - how I would endure shattering his heart so thoroughly. But I had no other choice. It was my duty as his mother to impart the news and to take him up in my arms during his inevitable anguish in the hopes that healing would find him someday. Steeling myself in spite of my lingering doubts, I made my way to the front door as the group entered, knowing that I was expecting their arrival. Charles flew into my embrace with his characteristic exuberance, and for a moment I allowed myself to smile. I had missed him so terribly in the time that separated us, and upon our reunion I couldn't imagine how I had ever been able to send him away even to safety in the first place.

"Grandmother started crying when we got here," he announced, a troubled crease appearing on his brow, "You're sad, too. Why?"

 _Oh, my poor darling._

I took a deep breath and silently led him into the parlor, motioning for everyone else to follow. Once there, I gently took my son by the shoulders before speaking. He was far too young to know the whole truth, to understand the dire circumstances which led to his father's murder - Erik had been adamant about protecting the child's innocence, and in that spirit I attempted to spare him as much pain and terror as possible, saying simply that his father had died and desperately trying to make him understand my words. But in response he only shook his head emphatically at the news, immediately in denial of something he could only barely comprehend. He had known early in his life about the passing of his sister - death was not necessarily a foreign concept to him. But concurrently he had never witnessed it himself, had never experienced grief firsthand when it was still fiercely raw and all-encompassing, and he was instantly overwhelmed by the onslaught of information and emotions he was encountering.

"But I'm home now," he protested, "He will want to see me."

"Darling, of course he wanted to see you, but now he _cannot_ ," I said tearfully yet firmly, not wanting to hurt him so badly yet knowing I could not mislead him, "He's gone, Charles. He died, your Daddy died."

A deafening pause, then, "No, _no!_ " he shouted before running from the room.

Madame Giry and I followed him as he made his way to Erik's study, frantically searching the room as though his father was merely hiding and would suddenly come out and surprise him at the sound of his calls. When that did not happen, he uttered a groan of frustration before returning to the parlor, centering his focus on the piano in the same manner with which he had surveyed Erik's workspace. He was crying by then - terribly distressed and confused, and entirely unreachable by reason or compassion - and my heart broke for him. He was too young to know such heartbreak. It was dreadfully unfair, and he certainly did not deserve the unimaginable agony of that singular experience - no child should have to go about their life without their father, to have to confront mourning at a time in his life when all he should know is delight. I knew his pain well at losing my own father, and that memory hurt me that much more. The grief that lie ahead of him would be deep and enduring, an ache that only time could dull, yet it would never fade entirely. No, my poor little Charles did not deserve that pain.

"Where _is_ he?" he demanded tearfully.

I did not respond - I simply took him up in my arms once again as he sobbed. Realization and a grudging acceptance slowly dawned upon him at my silence, making his cries that much more agonized. I knew the moment understanding finally reached him, his hopeless tears and pleas meeting the air staggeringly; any remaining hope he clutched to that my words might be false had been destroyed. After a time, he forced himself from my arms and ran toward the stairs, his departure followed swiftly by the slamming of his bedroom door. I made to follow him when Madame Giry's firm hand upon my shoulder stayed me.

"Let him go. He'll need time."

I nodded numbly and looked around at the rest of my family before me, at Meg and Giles offering me their unmasked sympathy in their eyes as Madame led me to the divan. I sat obediently, almost mechanically, once again falling into a dark state of mind and distantly aware of the movement around me. Madame sternly yet softly began to delegate tasks to the others in the room. Now that she had arrived in London and planned to settle in for my benefit, I knew that she hoped that the continued sparing of any duties I might have been obliged to face would help me even in the smallest capacity. But I could not find it in myself to voice my gratitude, to even acknowledge the grand favor that she and my friends were offering me. I simply sat, absently realizing that I was still crying yet doing nothing to wipe the tears away; doing so seemed a wasted effort, really - surely they would never stop. Sylvia approached shyly to sit beside me, wrapping her arms around me once she had settled. I returned the gesture gratefully and remained with her for a time before Meg summoned her elsewhere. I cannot say how much time had passed, only that by then I had been reasonably able to compose myself and quickly decided it was time to seek out my son.

When I entered his bedroom, I found him lying upon his bed, still crying miserably to himself. I took him up in my arms once again and simply held him, rocking him gently as I had so often when he was an infant and speaking soft words of comfort. I knew that I would never be able to erase his pain entirely, certainly not in those initial hours of his grief, but my presence with him then at least seemed to soothe him to a small extent. After a time, he looked up at me with shining eyes - his father's eyes - that silently pled for me once again to take away the words that had broken his world.

"I want Daddy," he sobbed.

I sighed, "I know, my love. So do I."

~~oOo~~

Erik was buried next to Estelle. I knew that he would have wanted it that way, but to see the graves together of those that I lost so tragically and unexpectedly was devastating to behold, worsening my pain all the more as I gazed upon them disbelievingly. Surely so much pain could not occur in just one lifetime - I could scarcely imagine how it was within the realm of human capability to endure. The sun was shining on the day of his funeral, illuminating both the sky and the snow around his mourners brilliantly, holding the promise of an early springtime that mocked me with the potential for new life and the undaunted passage of time. Ignorant to my pain, those dazzling rays did nothing to soothe the chill within me, an ice that gripped the remnants of my soul from the moment of my husband's death. I absently wondered why it wasn't raining, why the floors of Heaven did not open up with a storm to mirror the reeling in my heart. No, I took no comfort in the vast and enduring daylight - my heart held too much darkness to be soothed, and I felt mocked by the contrasting light.

"The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, and no torment will ever touch them."

Unlike the day Erik died, a priest was summoned for this occasion. I knew his presence there was meant to be reassuring, that his appeals above were offered in part to mend the wounded spirits of the living, but as when Estelle died those sacred words met the air with nothing but pure grief and regret. Nothing he said could assuage my suffering or help me to make sense of my family's unjustifiable tragedy. I could hardly concentrate - I did not _want_ to, didn't want to believe or accept that I was attending my husband's funeral, for I knew that doing so was yet another aspect of making it all real. Accepting the occasion for what it was only served to bring finality to an event that I wanted nothing more than to reverse. I wanted no part of it. Erik was far too young when he died, had lived through so much turmoil to only be granted a few years of true happiness in the wake of that absolute darkness - it wasn't right. We were supposed to grow old together, to live our lives happily for decades only to be parted gently by the simple passing of time. Instead, he had met a violent and bloody end, and I couldn't bear it. But he deserved the respect of a proper burial, and so I soldiered on as I sincerely tried to listen to the priest and attempted to not collapse on the spot in my anguish, willing time to pass faster and for the torturous ceremony to end.

Charles gripped my hand tightly in his as we stood closest to the graveside, silent and reflective and still so terribly overwhelmed by what was happening all around him. In the days following his return, he had joined me in that pervading melancholy that now seemed to define our very lives, and while I did my best to help renew a sense of normalcy in him by keeping to an acceptable routine and encouraging him to engage in his books and toys, I knew that it would take time before any such peaceful notion could be granted to him again. Doing so wouldn't be any easier than finding it in myself, I was sure.

Eyes alight with an impossible measure of sadness, he looked upon the people surrounding us as I did - at Madame Giry, Meg, Giles, and Raoul standing in reverent and tearful silence near Vera and Iva, even Iva's grandsons. Members of my church attended, joined by the other employees of the architectural firm where Erik had worked for all those years. There were so many people at that funeral; I distantly wondered what Erik would have thought about that phenomenon, how he would have reacted to so many people gathering to bid him farewell. To me, in spite of its origins, it was a beautiful sight - he was loved beyond measure by his family, by our closer friends, and he had come to be well-respected by those with whom he interacted regularly. Perhaps the entirety of London had not come to entirely accept him in the years since we had first settled there, but in the end he was no longer utterly alone in the world beyond his doorstep. He walked the streets as any other man, losing the innate fear of hateful reprisal a little more with each passing year. And he would be remembered - not for being a monster, a thing to be reviled and mocked, but rather as a creator of beauty, a quiet yet intense man who simply asked for peace. That idea - almost more so than the priest's funerary mass - gave me just enough strength to continue to endure the bitter occasion.

"Alleluia. I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord; whoever believes in me will not die for ever. Alleluia."

The priest finished speaking at length, gently concluding and dismissing those in attendance with a graceful and long-practiced nod. It was over. He moved closer to me and placed a weathered hand upon my shoulder, silently and sincerely consoling me. I tried to hold my head high in my grief - truly I did, for my son's sake, for Erik's final request that I would not be afraid - but it proved to be nearly impossible; I uttered a miserable sob, unable once again to focus on what he was saying to me. Charles shared in my distress and reached up to me, silently requesting to be lifted into my arms - I obliged and held him tightly, absentmindedly reflecting on how quickly he was growing, that his father would not see it for himself, and I had to forcefully dismiss the thought then. I cried miserably, barely cognizant of the voices around me offering their sympathies in departure as I held fast to my child. It was only when Madame Giry made to usher me away from the graveside that I found the strength to speak, but even then my words were few and broken and terribly distant.

As we made our way to the cemetery gates, I glanced behind me to my daughter's headstone - etched simply with the name _Estelle_ \- and knew with no small amount of regret that soon another would stand beside it.

 _E. Lennox_.

The thought only served to bring new tears.

~~oOo~~

Following Erik's funeral, time passed us by agonizingly slowly, reminiscent of the days following Estelle's death so closely that I was often nearly paralyzed by a sense of ill-omen. The world continued to turn beneath us, yet the natural progress of life seemed far away and inconsequential. Thoughts of Erik haunted me endlessly, slowly etching still more scars in my soul until I was rendered hollow, cursed with a void that only his beating heart could fill. Yet that was impossible, and nothing could change that fact - he was gone, his spirit beyond any realm in which I could reach him, his body cold in the hallowed ground of his final resting place. Yes, he had offered up his life that our family could go on without the haunting echoes of his past once and for all, but tried as I did to give his sacrifice the meaning it deserved, I could never quite overcome the near-constant assuage of impediments. I feared that I simply wasn't strong enough to carry on after all. Yes, Charles and I were alive - but in many aspects of our existence, we had simply stopped living.

My son reacted to his father's death by retreating into himself, into a world of melancholy that he had never known before. It was clear at the outset of his mourning that he found little joy in play or storytime - in _anything_ that had once captured his attention so thoroughly - often turning down invitations to accompany Iva and her boys on jaunts to the park and shying away from the books he had formerly so adored. His spirit was severely dampened by his burdens. He was prone to foul tempers, and whether or not it was right to do so, I often allowed his behavior to pass without reprimand. I did not have the heart to punish him simply for acting on his pain. Madame Giry assured me that his reaction to his world's upheaval was quite normal, that in time his former character would reappear and that he would learn to live again; but I observed the phenomenon in abject terror, wanting so badly to believe Madame's words yet all the while fearing that my poor child had been broken beyond repair in his grief. In time, I was simply at a standstill as to how to proceed where Charles was concerned. I merely knew that I could only love him until the day came that he would know healing, and hold his hand through it all in the meantime.

But I was faring no better than him.

During that time, I had been largely neglecting my health, resignedly taking care of myself in the barest sense only for the sake of survival but otherwise focusing solely on Charles' wellbeing. And as a result, I had almost entirely ignored the telltale signs that something was amiss with me - something beyond and entirely separated from my role as the hopeless widow. It was those small differences in myself that were a sure sign of things to come, yet I had steadfastly busied myself with tending to my son's emotional state while concurrently and vehemently denying the whispered suspicions of my mind. But as the weeks went by I could no longer ignore what my body was telling me; after a visit to the doctor to confirm what I already unconsciously knew, I was nearly devastated by what I was told in the wake of my tragedy.

I was pregnant.


	36. In the Embers

**Author's Note:** _So sorry for the long delay in updating! But the good (and bad) news is, we're almost done! It's very bittersweet, because this has been an amazing journey and I'm sad to see it end, but at the same time I hope that we'll all get some closure here in these concluding chapters. There's **only an epilogue left** after this, so stay tuned for that last installment. I think y'all will be pleasantly surprised by its content. ;) Good stuff, I promise. Sad, yes, but still good. Anywhoodles, that said, I apologize again for the delay in posting this chapter. Lots of hectic things around here, the usual, and I had a hell of a time writing this one. Or, rather, polishing it. I've spent all of these weeks simply trying to say what I meant to say, and while the chapter itself was written in a day or so immediately after Chapter 35, it was the editing and organizing that was killing me. I really wanted this one to have significance, because there really is a lot going on even in a long time span. So on that note, please tell me what you think, especially with the pacing and realism. I tried very hard to make the events and emotions here believable, especially with the themes of grieving and acceptance, etc, so any feedback or constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! Once again, thank you to everyone that's been reading and reviewing! You are all wonderful and I'm so glad to have been able to talk to y'all about writing and PotO and everything in between. **Lots of love!** I will definitely be floating around FFN and the Tumbles (spooky-mormon-hell-dream, check me out) once "Eternity" is complete. If you haven't read it already, remember to check out my Thanksgiving-themed one-shot "To the Stars," and remember to stay tuned after the new year for my next phic - details of which I will share a bit later. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the song of the same name by Sleeping At Last. I definitely recommend y'all check this one out over on YouTube. It's beautiful, heartbreaking, and just overall an amazing song by a great group. The lyrics are breathtaking, and really describe what I wanted to capture here in this part of the piece, about one's legacy in the brevity of life. Srsly, beautiful song, go have a listen. Welp, I do believe that's about it. I can't believe I only have one rambling A/N left before this phic is complete! :'( Again, much love and appreciation to you all. Remember to read, review, and most of all enjoy! _

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Chapter 36 - In the Embers

Christine

I could not sleep without nightmares. When I went to church, I could not bring myself to pray, and I could no longer open my heart to my music without inviting further dejection. I ignored my hunger and exhaustion until my body finally protested to the extent of pain. It seemed to me that the entire world, that even time itself had ceased its movement onward - or if it somehow continued, it did so heedless of my absence in the procession. Erik died in mid-January, and between his devastating passing and burial and the observation of Estelle's birthday later that February, I found myself absolutely reeling at being obliged to face both my life's tragedies and responsibilities. Finding out that I was pregnant just weeks after the worst of that storm of agony only added to my suffering; despite events to look forward to, it truly seemed that there was no end to the pain in sight.

I should have been excited by the news of the baby - in another lifetime, I would have been absolutely _thrilled_.

Long ago had I been able to relinquish my terror regarding the risks and uncertainties of motherhood - once Charles was safely brought into the world, those fears were soothed that much more, and on the whole I was able to approach parenthood with a new strength. Some time after our son was born, Erik and I had decided that neither of us would be opposed to having more children. As our boy grew older and no siblings came about, we accepted this reality just as easily, deciding that all things would come in their own time and having no real reasons to broach the subject otherwise. We lived well during that time, witnessing our son thriving under our guidance and happily experiencing our lives through those peaceful years. But we hadn't known then that the end of such relative tranquility would come so staggeringly, nor that one final night of carelessness would leave me expecting a child entirely by myself. I felt absurdly abandoned once again, but stronger than that was the consuming trepidation I experienced at the prospect of bringing a baby into the world alone - the heartbreak at the unwavering truth that the poor infant would never know its father. In understanding all of that amid my grief, I did not have the presence of mind to celebrate the creation of new life; rather, I felt utterly overwhelmed and entirely without direction.

When our daughter passed, Erik had been by my side at each turn, unwavering in his determination to see us both through to a better existence in spite of his own guilt and heartache; when Charles came along, Erik shared my fears with me, yet all the while offered me his strength and assurance that all would be well in the end. But when my husband was gone, I was certain that I could not stand to face that kind of terror again without him. Moreover, I felt so utterly hopeless and lost in my desolation that I wasn't sure if I could survive mourning the loss of the one I loved so much. Not again, and not alone; for although I was surrounded by sympathetic and helpful loved ones, there was ultimately nothing they could do to penetrate the icy grip of mourning that painted every beat of my heart, that terrible feeling of isolation and detachment from the world that I simply could not relinquish. I loved them for their efforts, but not a one of them was the person that I needed the most, and although I knew that Erik wished for me to find enough strength to live my life in his absence, I wasn't sure _how_ to carry on without him.

I was nearly in hysterics when I told Madame Giry of my condition. She had remained at home with me once Giles and Meg had no choice but to regretfully return to France with their daughter - the obligations of their lives demanding their attention once more. But Madame was able to spare her time in the wake of Erik's death. Without her, I'm not sure I could have managed alone. While Vera and Iva were a great help to me during the day, it came to pass that I would continue to have the most trouble enduring the long and lonesome hours of the night, and oftentimes I found myself seeking Madame out as a small child would after waking from a nightmare. She would patiently sit with me and dry my tears, and only after receiving her motherly affections and wise reassurances could I return to the silence of my bedroom with the smallest semblance of bravery. In doing so I could at the very least attempt to face each new day, as daunting as the task was. But upon being given the news that I was expecting a third child, I was once again sent into a frenzy of dread and grief that was nearly blinding in its intensity - yet another reminder of my repeatedly broken family, and once again Madame Giry had taken it upon herself to attempt to pick up the pieces. She held me as I cried after sharing the news with her, allowing me to lose myself in my terror and sadness before taking the chance to speak with me.

"This _is_ a good thing, my dear," she said softly, "I promise you it is."

"How?" I sobbed, feeling terribly desperate for answers I knew would never come, " _How_? I can't go through this alone. How could he have left me to face this?"

She sighed, "You know that wasn't his intention. This is bad timing, but a blessing just the same. Like it or not, darling girl, you have to mind yourself far better now. For your baby."

I couldn't respond then, losing myself to my tears once again instead. I was consumed by guilt, in equal parts for the fear I felt at the prospect of the new life within me and for once again unconsciously reinviting my misplaced anger with Erik. But I couldn't think on it, didn't dare attempt to let go of my pain if only to view the future with any modicum of excitement. It was wrong - everything had gone so very wrong - and my family and I had been cast to the winds to suffer in the aftermath. All I could do then was cry.

Altogether, my pregnancy would not prove to be a happy one, and with each passing day I fought between my overwhelming guilt, my mourning, and my looming terror. But for all of my own pain and much to my relief, Charles reacted well to the news of the baby - unlike most children, he did not give himself to bouts of jealousy or uneasiness. Rather, he took up his role as a brother quite seriously from the outset. He asked after the baby often, genuinely curious about its presence in our lives, and for his benefit if not for my own I donned a mask of glad anticipation. I did not harbor ill feelings for my baby - certainly not - but I remained apprehensive at that unseen life and each awaiting possibility it represented all the same. But when Charles spoke so fondly of his sibling, I could pretend for a few fleeting moments that our family was whole, that the joy we were experiencing was absolute and not shadowed by tragedy all the while.

As time went on, I could see my son's heart healing. It was slowly, to be sure - slowly and so very hesitantly, but sincere and determined in equal measure. Just before the awakening springtime, I employed both a private tutor and a music teacher for him. Erik had always been adamant that our son receive a proper and well-rounded education - my husband and I had missed such opportunities for formal schooling in our own childhoods, but our son would not have to shoulder such a burden. Bright and inquisitive little Charles was immediately enthralled by each lesson, and that new element to his days proved to be a factor in steadily bringing him back to his life. When the summertime arrived, he was more willing to join his playmates outdoors, and would return from their romps together with a genuine smile on his face - the smile I had missed fervently and that reminded me so much of Erik.

But even so, it was clear that losing his father _had_ impacted Charles greatly, had changed him in that singular way that only losing a parent can bring forth in a young child. While his temperament had substantially improved since the initial days following Erik's passing, our boy carried himself more seriously in the wake of his tragedy, in a way that showed a wisdom beyond his years. He had been made to know far too much about mourning in his short life, and that unfortunate truth resonated deeply within him. I had been much the same after losing my own father, blinded by a melancholy that steadfastly gave way to a stoic and reserved existence that was only relieved by a feigned angel. A part of me feared that my son would be lost in that world of aloof sadness forever, and it was a monumental relief to see that in time he had proven himself to be more resilient in his own way. It was a great comfort to me that the carefree happiness of childhood had been renewed in him, that even with his untimely maturity his grief had not irrevocably stolen his spirit.

It was far more difficult for me to regain that mindset for myself, to view my life with the hope that Erik and I had forged alongside one another so long ago and that our son had been brave enough to find once more. The long weeks and months of my pregnancy all seemed to blend together endlessly, blurring the lines of anticipation and mourning at every turn. I tended to practical matters regarding the baby and the household as they arose, ensured that my son was properly nurtured by me and well taken care of each day, but I regarded nearly every waking moment with no small amount of sadness. I could not seem to look forward to anything - not truly - nor could I settle down and simply allow myself to enjoy any relative tranquility I might be fortunate enough to find. Although I was surrounded by friends and my remaining family members, I was terribly lonely, longing every moment for the one person that was impossible to reach. Erik still seemed to be all around me, his memory powerful and enduring even as the months separated our last embrace, but that notion only served to intensify my longing. In many ways, I attempted to rein in the pain of his loss by avoiding as many reminders of him as possible. I entered the parlor only when it was absolutely necessary, otherwise avoiding it simply for fear of imagining him at his piano and absentmindedly calling out to him. Likewise, his study had been rendered entirely closed off to the world, to my consciousness. It was but a mausoleum to me now, a silent memorial to a lost love, and I could not bear even to pass it by. It would remain so for nearly a year.

Beyond the grander scope of my loss, I came to realize that it was the little things about Erik that I missed the most - some days more fervently than others. Unbidden memories would make themselves known to me as if from nowhere, and in those vulnerable moments I could clearly remember the way he absentmindedly and steadily tapped rhythms when he was away from his instrument - the way he fidgeted with the pen in his left hand as he muttered his notes aloud while drafting. I remembered the way he smiled to himself when I entered the room, when Charles said something he found endearing. I'm not sure if he was even aware of his subtle habits, those daily nuances that were uniquely _his_ , but after so many years together I had grown so fond of them, fond of everything about his presence. In his absence, I missed those small and otherwise inconsequential details with a driving force. _Everything_ intangible about him was gone, survived only by the people that missed him so terribly; the music that would never again meet the air, the beautiful designs for buildings that would never rise to the sky - all lost. No one but him could bring the majesty hidden within his mind into the light. And every day apart served as continued and excruciating reminders of the true nature of the loss of his life - the devastating magnitude of that loss. Such little things indeed, but to me, to our family, it was as if the entire world had ceased to exist, our world mourning his death as faithfully as we had.

Yet as fervently as I longed for his presence, I was never able to dream of him, to hold him in my arms if only by reliving our togetherness in my memories; rather, I continued to be plagued with nightmares, only to wake under a veil of perceived isolation made that much more unbearable by the little life within me that we had created together. In the stillness of the night during my pregnancy, I missed Erik's hands over mine as we long ago had marvelled together at the movement of our child, dreaming in hushed tones of what our lives would become, of the person that our little one might prove to be. But as my third pregnancy progressed, it was my hands alone that met with the insistent fluttering beneath my heart, and more often than not I was reduced to tears in that solitude. I wanted so badly to be brave, but as the time drew closer to the baby's arrival, I felt my strength waning. By then, the summer was drawing to its close, steadfastly ushering in an autumn that promised the arrival of my baby in those cool and peaceful days. But all the while I was haunted and dejected, and even the promise of the simplicity in the golden sunsets I had once enjoyed was not enough to calm my frantic and shattered heart.

I whiled away the remaining weeks in a state of complete and unbroken misery, fighting to ensure that my son was cared for while concurrently giving myself to an anguish so deep that I was certain that it would swallow me whole. I had not felt that kind of undaunted sorrow since losing Estelle, but the grief at losing Erik coupled with my pregnancy was markedly different and substantially worse. No, I had no idea how to move forward - I would be lying if I did not say that I was all but convinced that doing so was entirely impossible. I rose each morning with weary resignation, put on a brave face before tending to Charles or visiting with friends, and made a mighty effort to return to my life and to regard my unborn child with even the smallest modicum of excitement. But on the whole I found myself at a loss. Everything I did seemed mechanical, forced to the point of torture, and I could not bring myself to be sincere in my actions. I did not want to be a widow, for my poor son to be fatherless, and to be pregnant all the while only served as an ever-present reminder of the pain we were so unjustly forced to endure.

There were darker times that I was still angry with Erik for dying, for not grasping at his life as fiercely as I had longed to save it. But my anger was misplaced, I knew it. Erik had not asked for the gypsy's wrath, for the events in his youth that would prove to be the catalyst in his untimely demise. In the end, I decided that it was the world that was to blame - a world inhabited by an uncaring and unmerciful society that had sought to defeat my husband at every turn, even when he was a helpless child no older than our own son. The very idea was sickening to me, absolutely deplorable that Erik had ultimately been forced to take another life in order to win his freedom. Yet in the end the blood on his hands, the mark on his soul would not be enough, and all because of a world that refused to spare kindness and humanity to one who longed only for beauty and innocence as he fought against his own darkness and maddening abandonment. Our world truly was a dark and cruel place. And as my anger with my husband faded with that terrible understanding, I was devastated in wondering how I could possibly bring another child into that madness which broke my husband's spirit. How could I do so alone? It was a terrifying notion, seemingly insurmountable, and once again I was rendered nearly paralyzed with the fear that accompanied my unborn child seemingly at every turn.

Yet somehow, in spite of the relentlessness of the storm within me, I suffered through that time almost entirely in silence, rendered wholly unable to truly give voice to my pain. Madame Giry and Meg were my closest confidantes as Vera and Iva were my greatest allies; but to the rest of the world, I was numb, continuously stricken by a grief so deep that I had become a mere shadow of my former self. But I made a mighty effort to maintain what little normalcy I had been successful in recapturing, pressing on for the sake of my children and forcing a conviction all the while that complete isolation would only serve to harm myself and my small family. It was merely a small stride toward healing, but it was all I had left to give.

In that spirit, I made it a point to maintain my friendships, hoping that doing so could continue to help in any way at all. Like Madame Giry, Raoul had decided to settle in London, engaging in new business ventures of his own and intending to keep his promise to Erik that he would see to our affairs in the event of my husband's passing. He visited as often as I would permit, graciously accepting my need for solitude when I sent him away and assisting me with practical matters when I granted him entry into my home. He was always a gentleman, and more so a true kindred spirit. Where Madame Giry approached me with all the authority of a matriarch, Raoul in his turn was able to offer me the simplicity of his friendship, a gesture that helped to soothe the maddening ache of my troubles even if only in the smallest of ways. Losing his own wife and child had offered him the unfortunate firsthand understanding of what I was experiencing, and while I remained silent for my part, he in turn spoke to me with honesty and sympathy, and I was grateful for his presence.

One occasion, however, stands out in my memories as being particularly difficult for us both. It wasn't until the end of our discussion that I could understand that his words might prove to be a major turning point regarding the way I approached my life, even if it was only in the barest and most practical sense. In his honesty, he was able to reach me in a way that no one else had been able - not even Madame Giry or Iva in their years of experience. As still more weeks passed that summer, I finally shared with Raoul the news of my pregnancy, knowing that the time had arrived that I could not hide it any longer. As an unfortunate result of my poor health born of my grief, I had been able to keep my condition a secret from nearly everyone with whom I frequently visited, opting to keep the news only to myself and immediate family members for fear of further reminders of my pain at the sight of pitied and empathetic gazes. But I could not continue that practice much longer, and I did not want Raoul to be the recipient of secondhand information or gossip on my behalf - in the end, he deserved my honesty. He did not respond to my news at first, but rather looked at me with such sympathy and pity that I nearly cried out at its presence in his expression.

"Congratulations are clearly in order, then," he said after some reflection, seeming to force neutrality into his features, "This is something we ought to celebrate."

"There doesn't seem much to celebrate," I huffed, feeling very much like a petulant child yet not caring about my display of regret.

"Of course there is. And there _has_ been. You must have known for quite some time."

"Since the winter...The end of February," I said distantly, pausing before remarking, "I used to enjoy the winter, the snow. Did you know that? It was beautiful. But Estelle died in the wintertime, and now Erik. And in the end it seems that death is all around me."

"It's the season's fault, now is it?"

"It was a constant reminder then, and now a terrible memory. I once thought that wintertime meant second chances, and I loved that...I was driven by the notion. Not anymore, not when I think about that time, when I look around and all I see is death."

"And _life_ , Christine. Your baby has been given to you amid your tragedy. I'm sure that Erik would have been thrilled," he said at length, "He made it no secret to me that his family meant the world to him."

"He won't be here to see his child," I lamented, "He was murdered because his past wouldn't stay behind him where it belonged. It's wrong," I shook my head, "It's all wrong."

"It is. But you were able to keep living. That's what he wanted most."

"He died for me, for Charles, but we're miserable without him. And his children will grow up without him, this baby will never even _meet_ him. There's no justice in that...No meaning."

He was silent for a time before speaking evenly, "There isn't meaning in death."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I say. There _isn't_ meaning in death. It is inevitable, a fact that never changes. But there _is_ meaning in life, and you gave that to him."

I shook my head, "Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if we never would have met. Perhaps he would still be alive."

"The gypsy would still have found him. You know that," he sighed, "Their quarrel began long before the two of you met. And besides, even had these events not come to pass, what would have become of Erik otherwise? No one else but you would have given him a chance to live away from the shadows. He told me himself that you gave him something to protect, something worthwhile...his meaning, his sense of purpose."

"It isn't _right_. What has he died for, in the end?"

"I doubt that he would appreciate being painted as a martyr. But there is no question of his reasons. Remember that now, as time passes. Be glad for his sacrifices, for your children. Be glad for their lives, if not for your own, and let that heal you."

"You say this as if it were so easy," I snapped.

"It's _not_ ," he responded defensively, "There are two graves in a cemetery in France that have taught me just how hard it is to press on, don't you remember?"

I gasped, immediately regretting my callousness, "Raoul - "

"I speak the truth to you, Christine, and I speak from experience. There is no good reason for our families to have been as broken as they were," he said firmly, "But there was _meaning_ to the lives led before they were lost, no matter how short or painful. You are not alone, you have more than enough reason to carry on. Take care to remember that now."

He stood abruptly to leave then, but I did not follow. I knew that he didn't expect me to, but rather wished that I would remain in place and reflect upon his words.

I sincerely regretted speaking so uncaringly to him, selfishly forgetting even for the briefest of moments how terribly his own life had been thrown off course, that he was utterly alone in the world now and without the family he had so cherished. I was truly grateful to him - for his friendship, for his kindness, and now for his candor. In my heart, I knew that I needed those truths from him - no matter how difficult they were to comprehend in the moments they were spoken - for I was certain that I would not have been able to find them on my own, not in my grief, and not in the simplest terms. I would not allow myself to see past my own sorrow long enough to truly fulfill my duties to my children, to my husband, and I knew that Erik would have been heartbroken to see me fall that far for so long in his absence. He certainly had not given his life for me to put my own on hold. Something had to give before I broke once again, before I forfeited my family and my husband's sacrifice in the process. Raoul had given me much to consider. Erik and I were parted far too soon, but he left me the momentous gift of our little Charles, of the baby that demanded my attention and the promise of a future that perhaps still held hope for us all - and as Raoul had implored, I would do well to remember that. In the meantime, it was all I could do to wait and pray that I could summon the strength to carry on, to understand and accept what seemed impossible to endure.

Raoul returned the next day to apologize for the harshness of his tone, but I would not hear of it. Informing him of my revelations, he simply smiled his approval in response. Our friendship was as strong as ever, and with that added reminder of all I did have left in the world, I was able to find the resolve within myself to attempt to live through the coming months with just a little less of the numbness that had sustained me since the winter. It was not a miraculous change to my approach to my existence, but it was enough to help me to outlast until the coming journey made itself known.

~~oOo~~

My youngest child - a daughter - was born on a cloudy afternoon that October, just a fortnight after celebrating Charles' sixth birthday. In the weeks that separated that fateful day from Raoul's summertime visit, I had made my sincerest and best efforts to maintain even the smallest shred of optimism regarding my pregnancy and my life to follow. But in the end, the birth itself and every lost dream it represented had simply proven to be too overwhelming for me, and at the outset of the occasion I felt for all the world as if I had reentered that bleak world of mourning from which my discussion with Raoul had only granted a brief reprieve. When my labor began early that morning, I was starkly aware of how very alone I was in that bedroom, how the whispers of pain would soon be absolutely torturous, and yet all the while I would be left to endure that truth of motherhood without my husband's confident words and protective eyes to guide me. And all at once, I grieved for him as I feared for my unborn child.

It was a long and exhausting labor which swiftly turned to an exceedingly difficult delivery - afflicted with steadily worsening complications to the point that at length the doctor was required to be summoned to assist. While I had done everything I could during the pregnancy to ensure my health and that of the baby, having to carry the child while concurrently mourning for my husband had taken a toll on my body that even my steadfast mindfulness could not banish entirely. By the time I went into labor after so many months of being taxed by physical and emotional distress, I was frail and far weaker than I should have been, and my baby was clearly suffering as a result. As the midwife guided me through the delivery, I was overtaken continuously by my renewed guilt for not being stronger. And as my body continued to grow weaker, my heart was seized by a forceful sense of grief that it was Madame Giry holding my hand throughout the process, not Erik. As each of these dreadful truths combined through the day's progression, I was rendered terrified and unsure if the baby and I could ultimately survive the ordeal. It was miserable, and terribly frightening.

I struggled through the delivery, nearly deaf to all softly spoken and reassuring words around me as I forced myself to put my own anguish out of mind for the sake of the infant I so desperately wanted to come into the world. But when the baby was finally born, I nearly could not bear to look at the wriggling little one crying out in the midwife's skilled hands. Rather, I glanced at my daughter only briefly, noting miserably that she was terribly small. Upon seeing her tiny form before me, bereft of her beloved father and immediately blaming myself for every imagined and unconfirmed ailment that she might face at my hand, I gave myself to bitter and intense tears. For the first moments of her precious life, I felt as if I couldn't breathe, that my guilt and grief would finally consume me once and for all - I had only needed to bring the child into the world safely; but beyond that duty, it seemed that my heart had finally broken entirely. I would die of the bereavement at last. I could hear the baby crying - strong and steady in spite of her outward frailness - but I didn't dare look up again. I could not allow myself to see the life that Erik and I had created together, not when he wasn't there to revel in that miracle alongside me.

"You have a daughter, Christine," Madame Giry said gently, attempting to coax my trembling hands from my eyes long enough to see the baby.

"She's healthy. You did wonderfully," the midwife said, "Look at her, dear."

"No, _no._ I can't," I wailed, "Erik…"

"He would be so very proud of you," Madame insisted, "Look at her, look at his daughter. She's crying for you."

"I hurt her, she's too small," I cried, "Oh God, I hurt her. I'm so sorry."

"She's fine, Christine. Yes, she's small, but she's not hurt."

" _Please_ , I can't," I moaned, fearing that I would never be strong enough to look at my daughter again and entirely unable to relinquish my grief in those moments following her birth.

"Give her time," the midwife said to Madame Giry in a low voice.

Weeping steadily, I tried desperately to compose myself in spite of my anguish as Madame Giry swaddled the baby and the doctor and midwife continued to tend to me. But quite some time passed before I could escape the violent tide of grief that continuously threatened to drown me. I wanted so badly to revel in the good news - in spite of my initial assumption to the contrary, the baby _was_ healthy, a healthy little daughter. But with that thought came yet another onslaught of pain, the grief accompanying Erik's memory once again and the knowledge that he would have loved a little girl. And I could only weep for every moment that had been stolen from us, for every bit of happiness promised and cruelly snatched away again. I was sure that I would never understand what our lives had become - in spite of everything I had been told, there seemed to be no meaning left in our shattered existence.

But even as I continued in my display of heartache, the baby continued to cry out for its mother. After a time and heartened by the singularly beautiful sound of her newborn voice, I forced myself to settle the torment within my fragile heart long enough to acknowledge her - in the end, I could not bear to be separated from my baby any longer. I looked over to where Madame was speaking softly to her, catching a glimpse of her tiny hand as the older woman wrapped a blanket securely around her form, and I knew without a doubt then that I needed to see her for myself - to _truly_ see her with eyes that did not harbor sorrow in her regard.

Madame Giry passed her to me at my request, and in that moment, the world seemed to shift beneath me - all at once, time ceased its taunting progression into a dark and fearsome unknown, marching onward instead with a peaceful rhythm that I had not experienced in so long. Suddenly, the journey ahead did not seem so painful. She was my saving grace. With her existence came the notion that life had begun to move forward once again without that relentless pain at last. It was slowly at first, almost imperceptibly yet undaunted all the same; and finally I could open my heart to that singular fact. From the moment she was placed in my arms, I fell absolutely in love with my baby - a love that I knew in those moments had been waiting in the wings, yet had been utterly intangible until then. I had been blinded to it in my mourning, and I needed to look into her eyes to entirely comprehend that such a love could exist in the wake of tragedy. Just as I had been with Charles, seeing and holding my daughter for the first time rendered me entirely enamored with her. And I smiled then, smiled genuinely for the first time that day through my tears, and for a moment I knew true happiness again. Erik would have loved her, I knew - for a moment I could believe that if I closed my eyes, I could see him smiling before me, proud of what we had created together, and that image gave me that much more confidence where before those moments I thought I would never know such a sensation again. I touched the baby's cheek gently, moved to stroke her wispy hair, so dark like her father's. I loved her.

"Do you have a name for her?" the midwife asked.

"Evelyn," I said softly.

In my efforts to encourage the excitement I longed to behold while I awaited the birth of my child, I had put sincere consideration into names for a boy or a girl. In that spirit, I had known for quite some time what I might call a daughter. Weeks before the child was born, I had remembered Erik's words from the night of Charles' birth, when we were discussing names in an attempt to distract me from my pain. He had been very fond of Evelyn for a little girl. _That name goes nicely with Estelle's, don't you think?_ His voice echoed in my mind that autumn afternoon, and from the moment I laid eyes upon my youngest child, I knew who she was meant to be; her title would bear meaning, in its own way. _Evelyn_ , a name that meant life - her new life in the wake of death, the representation of the sacrifice given by the man that had loved and protected his family until his final breath. I knew without a doubt that my husband would have approved of my decision, that he favored the name in its silent tribute to our poor lost baby and would surely understand the meaning it held now, and I wanted very badly to give Evelyn something of her father's to carry with her in life. I sighed contentedly at the idea, solemnly vowing then that she would know him as she grew up. I could not give her the presence of her father, but she would not be without memories of him, she would not be without his love - of that, I was entirely certain.

Thoughts of my husband in happier times passed brought me a new wave of bittersweet tears, but as I held our daughter in my arms, I felt strong enough to look upon those memories with the joy that they onced elicited. And for a moment - a point in time so brief that I nearly missed it - I was sure that Evelyn smiled at me. Some would say she was too young, that newborns don't truly smile, but in that instant I knew better. She had smiled at me, a gift that made my heart soar; in turn I was able to mirror the gesture to her, grateful beyond words for her presence in my life. She was a blessing to my small family beyond measure, a promise that the darkness of the past was not as insurmountable as it had appeared for so long - just as the first rays of sunlight after a storm reminded me as a child that my hopelessness would not last forever, Evelyn had proven to hold that singular promise within her existence.

~~oOo~~

Iva had agreed that morning to mind Charles alongside her own boys until the baby was born, and as such we had been separated for several endless hours - even in my pain and fear, I had missed my beloved little boy dreadfully throughout the day. The baby and I were obliged to settle for a time before my son could be permitted to return from Iva's home; but the moment I was able to do so, I requested that Madame Giry send for him at once, eager to have him near me and for him to see the infant for himself at last. I knew how excited he had been - especially in recent weeks - to meet his sibling, and I was sure that he had spent his day chattering to Iva and her boys about little else besides the object of his keen interest. When he finally arrived home, he absolutely bounded up the staircase, speaking excitedly to Madame Giry all the while. I smiled to myself as I heard his words and endless questions through the closed door of my bedroom-turned-nursery - while he had enjoyed his playtime, he made it no secret that he much prefered to be near the baby in those moments.

He entered the room quietly and slowly approached the rocking chair I occupied with the bundle in my arms, already informed by his grandmother to carry himself gently around the newborn. He took up this new responsibility quite seriously - as I had expected - seeming for all the world as if it was his sole duty to ensure that the little one before him was not startled or upset by anything within the realm of his control. I smiled once more at his demeanor, proud that he was already so protective of the new addition. He gave me his undivided attention as I formally introduced my children, informing Charles that he had been given a sister after all.

"What's her name?" he asked softly.

"Evelyn."

"She's too small to play outside," he lamented after a brief consideration.

I laughed, "Yes, that's true, my dear. She won't be joining you or your friends for quite some time."

"I _had_ wanted a brother," he reminded me patiently.

"I know, Charlie," I responded lightly, "But some things cannot be controlled, you know. Are you terribly disappointed?"

He thought for a moment before responding, "No, I don't think so. May I hold her?"

"Yes, if you're very careful."

I moved to stand so that Charles could take my place upon the rocking chair, and once he settled I lowered the infant into his waiting arms. I spoke softly, telling him how to hold her properly. He took in my words very seriously, determined not to jostle or upset the baby and instantly proving to be very adept at cradling the little girl.

"Her skin is so soft," he said as he stroked her hand, "She's like the bunny rabbits that we saw in the park in the springtime."

"All babies have soft skin. I suppose they _are_ rather like those bunnies, aren't they?" I mused, met immediately by his enthusiastic nod of agreement.

"I'm going to call her Bunny, then," he announced, leaving no room for discussion.

I could only smile at his declaration, fondly regarding him once again at the evidence of his affection for the baby.

I knew that he would prove to be a fine older brother, that his protectiveness would in some small way come to soothe the pain of Erik's absence in time. Evelyn remained dozing in her brother's arms, and at her compliance he looked back up to me proudly, smiling at his accomplishment. I did not speak then - could not find the proper words to express the fullness of my heart or my own pride I held for my darling family - only returned my son's smile with all the sincerity that the day had brought me, gazing upon my beloved children as if I beheld the most precious gems in the world. To me, they were Heavensent, cherished and treasured beyond words and held irrevocably within my heart alongside their father. I felt Erik's love for me so strongly then that I nearly swayed where I stood. He was not gone away from me forever, I knew - he never could be so long as our children lived their lives. They were as much his legacy as his music, his genius, and I knew that his love and pride in their existence equalled my own. And all at once that notion alone was enough to reignite my sense of strength, the idea that the peacefulness and fulfillment of the life I shared with my husband would surely be ushered back at last in spite of the ever-lingering pain of his absence. In that room, in those small and quiet moments just before sunset, I felt as if a part of me had come back to life - it seemed to me at last that the world truly had begun to turn again, that the sensation was not simply a trick of a grieving mind.

I had lost so much, so many people that meant the world to me and that took a piece of my heart away with them at their passing. But looking at Charles and Evelyn then, I could truly believe that perhaps the storm had finally passed, that my long suffering was not in vain. If Erik had wanted me to live if only to see the two perfect embodiments of our love, those ever-present figures walking in his memory and heralding the first whispers of hope and healing at last, then I would be forever grateful to him for the opportunity.

~~oOo~~

Winter approached us quickly that year, and before I knew it the calm and agreeable autumn days had been swept away by the snowfall and gray mornings of London to which I had become accustomed. I spent every waking hour possible with my children, reveling in their good health and smiles as our lives - with Madame Giry's presence and assistance - continued to fall into respectable patterns of normalcy once again. My heart seemed to grow stronger with each passing week, emboldened by the sight of my children thriving before my very eyes.

When the new year finally arrived, I counted myself as very fortunate indeed, knowing that for all the pain and sorrow that my family had endured, we had somehow survived in the end in spite of the seemingly infinite days of loneliness and grief that we had known for so long. It was nearly impossible to believe that hundreds of days, thousands of hours had separated us in that time from Erik's death; but when the occasion of the first anniversary of his passing arrived, I was able to step back and understand just how blessed we were. At the outset of my grief, I did not believe that my heart was salvageable. But as that autumn had faded into winter and I tested the waters of my strength more each day, I found that I could regard my life more confidently. The pain was still there, to be sure - such was a pain of the soul that would never fade entirely - but on the whole it was becoming less staggering, and I knew that I had my children and my husband's desire for my bravery to credit for that. Some days proved to be more difficult than others, of course, more lonely and tearful than I thought bearable. Yet even so I found that I could surprise myself in the same breath on those worse occasions - that my heart had grown steadily more resilient in the wake of its suffering. I simply had to allow that resilience to happen in its time, to accept its presence when so many months before I would have simply succumbed to my hopelessness.

I had not taken Charles to the cemetery since Evelyn was born, but on that cold January day a year after my husband's death, I decided it was time to once again to take both of my children and make the pilgrimage to pay our respects. The sun shone brilliantly above us as we walked through those silent and hallowed grounds, a stark difference from the preceding weeks of snowstorms and mirroring the previous year's sunshine almost exactly. For a flitting moment at the reminder of my husband's funeral, I almost lost my resolve to visit at the overwhelmingly painful memories that were brought forth. I had been expecting them, of course, but I had underestimated just how terribly consuming those images would be. Distantly, as unbidden and agonized tears clouded my vision, I wondered if I was only serving to open my wounds and regressing in my recent progress in carrying on with my life by approaching Erik's grave, to remind myself and my children only of the devastation we had just barely survived. But in the end I thought better of it, steeling myself in my resolve. I knew that we had to be there that day - I had to allow Erik to rest, couldn't permit myself to invite the disturbance of his soul's peace by falling back into the miserable and isolating patterns of pure grief, but I could not allow the occasion to pass unmarked. He deserved more respect than that, and I had to prove to myself that I was stronger than the bitterness and unfairness of my loss.

Charles placed flowers on the graves of his eldest sister and his father as I held fast to Evelyn. It was silent for a time, a relative and reflective calm broken only by a soft and chilled breeze around us.

My son bravely broke the silence first, addressing the engraved stone before him quietly, "Bunny is here to see you today, Daddy," then to me, "Do you miss him, Mama?"

"Yes," I responded softly, "Very much."

"So do I. But I dream about him," he said proudly, "He talks to me then."

I smiled, "And what does he say?"

"That he misses us, too," he paused, "He looks different in my dreams."

"How so?" I asked, raising an eyebrow to the unexpected turn of the conversation.

"He looks like me."

"Is he a little boy, then?"

"No, he's Daddy," he said lightly, as if that knowledge should have been obvious to me all along, before continuing patiently, "But he _looks_ like me, his face is all the same."

 _All the same._ His words were so innocent and uncomplicated, holding all of the simplicity of a child's mind - yet even so, they resonated deeply within me, their meaning not lost to me then. Somewhere at last, it would seem that perhaps Erik was finally walking equal to other men, that he was no longer plagued with the deformity that had brought him so much misery in his life. I could only smile at that - even if the notion was merely born of my son's fanciful imagination, it brought me great comfort to consider nonetheless. I fervently hoped it was true.

Innocently ignorant to my thoughts, Charles began to sing a light tune to Evelyn, eliciting a breathy laugh from her as he continued his song. He had such a beautiful voice. It did not surprise me that his tone was so clear, that even in his youth he had a firm grasp of vocal musicianship. Music was deeply ingrained in our family; its very essence was something that undeniably drove us on, that flowed within our veins - it was through that music that Erik and I had come together in the beginning and had triumphed over our greatest downfalls in the end.

As the cemetery breeze carried my son's song through the air, I could not keep myself from thinking about Erik once again. In my mind's eye, I could clearly see us together long ago as we danced to the tinny notes of a music box, saw the blissful occasions throughout our marriage when we walked together hand in hand and entirely lost in a world we created together - whether through music or words, Erik had always been capable of spiriting me away at his will, the levity he elicited in doing so absolutely inspiring. I recalled so many years of embraces and tender kisses, of shared confidences and broken barriers. Before that day at the cemetery, it had been so long since I had allowed myself to recall those blithe and joyous memories, to open my heart to times long since passed when we were truly happy - content simply to be within one another's presence. I was surprised that such images did not ignite the flames of mournful agony within me as they once had. Rather, each memory seemed to act as a stitch to mend my broken heart. I was simply able to see them for what they were, and moreover to realize that in each of those memories, Erik had been happy - truly happy, able to overcome the sorrow we had shared together and the bleak existence he had known for too long. He had been allowed at last to carry on in his life like any other man, no longer broken or fearful. I remembered clearly the last night we spent together, my thoughts then focused on his triumphs.

 _For as much as humanity had tried to defeat him, he would not be conquered. Even in his lowest moments, even when he had convinced himself that the battle would never be in his favor, he carried on. He fought for a life without the pain brought about by something over which he had no control, and in doing so he had built something extraordinary to share with me. Long ago he had given me the beautiful flame of his existence that burned brightly with my own - a flame that would not be snuffed out by violence and cruelty. He gave me his music, his genius, his love; together we created our children, built a respectable and even relatively normal life against all odds. Amid our greatest triumphs we fought through seemingly endless tragedies, only to always find redemption in one another in the end._

Yes, we had found redemption in one another - and in that spirit, Erik had broken free from the shackles of his past; even though the gypsy had taken his life, the man had not stolen that redemption away. In the end, Erik had ultimately conquered his demons. His life had meaning, redemption - something that could never be taken from him, and in the end he had known the happiness that he had only been able to dream of yet so fiercely deserved. At the finale of his life, he had only wanted that dream to live on with the family he so adored. Realizing all of this as I stood before his grave with our children, I suddenly knew a moment of peace, a true and enveloping healing of which I had only experienced glimpses before. It was a bittersweet understanding, but deeply consoling nevertheless. Erik had not died in vain, and his life had not been without meaning. Our children alone were proof enough of that singular fact, the love that we shared ran deep and enduring. I missed him so terribly that some days I was sure that I could never go on, and yet I had. Each new day I experienced was because he had given everything to ensure that his enemy could never harm us again, that we could go on in life better people for having known him. And finally, finally it seemed as if I could draw a full breath again, that my heart was truly beginning to mend. A part of me still felt hollow, even lost in some ways, and I was sure it would always be that way - as with my parents, with Estelle, the pain would linger throughout my life, but I knew without a doubt then that it would not end me.

Grief is a terrible thing, powerful and enduring. But the love that Erik and I had known was just as powerful - it was stronger than the hatred and fear that had defined him for so long, and that was enough. His happiness was enough. And that day, a year after saying our tearful goodbyes, I felt that at last I could truly endure our separation. It would not be forever, not really - I knew that we would come together in the end, that would find one another beyond the veil between worlds. Looking back on my cherished memories of our time together, it seemed that we would always be meant to find one another, and that singular fact was enough for me. In the meantime, I would live, and live well. Anything to bring Erik the happiness that he deserved.

I brushed a tear from my eye - one of so many shed for the man I loved - as I looked upon my children once more. I smiled at them, and decided then that it was time to go home.


	37. Although I've Travelled Far

**Author's Note:** _Well, I am in absolute shock right now, but here it is: The Final Chapter. Woah. Seriously, though, this is very bittersweet. I am sad to see this end, yet so proud to have completed it just the same, and so happy with what it has become. Writing this has been an amazing journey; this is my first Phic since I was a teenager, and the first one I've completed at all. For me, this is monumental. And for that, I want to thank each and every one of you for being here with me for this journey. Seriously, y'all are amazing - your support, kindness, and help has made this piece so wonderful and has made me smile on countless occasions._ _ **Thank you thank you thank you!**_ _I love you all and am so grateful to have had this opportunity to make new friends, talk to other writers, and get to learn so many new things from so many great people. Once again, I love you all and I cannot truly express how grateful I am for your support. :') I won't keep y'all here long. Just a couple of notes about this chapter, as usual. First, the title comes from the song "The Promise" by Tracey Chapman. Originally, I was going to use "Every Breath You Take" by The Police, but a few days ago, as I was writing this chapter, I was watching ER (because of reasons) and this song appeared at the end of a particularly heartbreaking episode. So I looked it up on the YouTube, and within seconds I was in tears. This song kills me. It's just so beautiful, and I knew then that I had to use it here. So credit for this chapter's title definitely goes to this song. I highly recommend finding a lyric video for this one. On the note of lyrics, it bears mentioning that as I listened to the song (repeatedly) I realized that I wanted to incorporate its lyrics here. Since this chapter is stylistically different than the others, getting to use lyrics was a real treat and I am very happy with how it turned out. So at the beginning of this chapter are the lyrics from "The Promise" in excerpt style. Likewise, the end of this chapter features lyrics from the song "Eternity" by Richard Marx. I felt that it was important to close this piece with the song that inspired it to begin with and became its namesake. The song is such a great example of redemption, a theme I used a lot in this story, and just like Chapman's song, I was absolutely thrilled to get to use Marx's song as a closer as well. On the whole, I recommend both songs highly, but also advise that you will cry while listening to them. I know, I'm awful. Anywhoodles, please let me know what you think about using the songs and about the chapter in general. Finally, a quick reminder to check out my profile here for information on upcoming works, of which there are many. :D Stay tuned, I'm not going anywhere. ;) Welp, I do believe that's about it for my last A/N ramble. *sniffle* But enough of my separation anxiety, and on with the show! I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by this one. Remember to read, review, and as always, enjoy this my darlings!_

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Epilogue - Although I've Travelled Far

Erik

"I always hold a place for you in my heart

If you think of me, if you miss me once in a while

Then I'll return to you

I'll return and fill that space in your heart

Remembering your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace

I'll find my way back to you

Together again

It would feel so good to be in your arms

Where all my journeys end

I vow to come for you"

 _I had been your angel once before, at the beginning of our time together so long ago. How apt that I appear to you now only as a specter in the end - a shadow, an unheard whisper echoing through your heart. But though you cannot see me, I am still here. I am with you every day, my darling. This brilliant summer afternoon is no different, and that singular fact is extraordinary to me even now._

 _As I lay dying that January morning, I had to wonder what would become of me when all was said and done. I could not bring myself to be afraid in those final moments, yet I could not ignore the reality of who I had been before being granted the peaceful life with you that I longed for. In my youth - forced to live as a nomad, beaten into submission and witnessing the scarring of my body and soul more violently with each passing day - I was sure that I would never be granted the mercy I would miraculously come to know. For so long had I been rendered resentful of the world, afraid to relinquish my anger in favor of the happiness which was entirely foreign to me and wholly ignorant of my own humanity. I was certain that I had forfeited it to the demons that haunted me, that my bleak origins and shameful actions had warped my soul beyond redemption or repair. But when the moment of my death arrived, the sins of my past no longer mattered - they had long since been forgiven._

 _It was the man I became for you which allowed me this unparallelled existence, Christine - the man I found within myself through your eyes that ultimately saved me from an eternal darkness. I'm so grateful to you. Before we met, I had not truly known what it meant to love, to be happy. I had not understood what it meant to live. I was compelled to survive only by my stubbornness to be the master of my own fate simply to spite my aggressors. In that darkness, I believe that I truly was a monster, that I was teetering on the edge of madness and damnation with no hope of respite. I hadn't believed that I could find any modicum of redemption - nor that I deserved it - for I was too consumed by my madness and anger to care that I was only a shadow of a man. My heart was beating, my mind churning and my spirit full of longing for a dream just beyond my reach, yet my soul was lost - too far away from me to hold on to the desire to fight with any measure of sincerity. I was hollow, bitter - walking the earth dead to myself. I was not alive until we met, until your bravery and compassion made me understand that there was more to me than the darkness in which I sheltered myself for so long. You saved my life, you know. Meeting you was the best thing that could have happened to me. The moment we met, you saved me - proved to me time and time again that there was goodness in the world after all - and I can only pray that I was able to return to you even a fraction of the strength you gave to me. Without you, I do not believe I would have found it for myself._

 _But I am at peace now - granted an absolution that I had never expected - here in this timeless and enthralling place beyond the comprehension of the world. There is no pain, no fear, no suffering - gone are the vices that once drove me to lunacy, replaced by the understanding that I ultimately was not meant to be an eternal prisoner to my suffering. I am free. And like the life you shared with me, it is more than I ever thought I deserved._

 _I smile at our little Evelyn as you hold her in your arms, heartened by my love for her and scarcely able to believe how much she's grown since her birth in the autumn. Beside me, Estelle smiles as well, glancing at me before running away to join Charles and his friends in their raucous game of make-believe. Like me, she is entirely unseen by the other children, but that fact does not hamper her enjoyment - it never does. She simply wants to be with them, to share in their merriment as she would have in life; she revels in the opportunity granted to her now. I want you to know that she is well, Christine. She is so happy - even perhaps just a bit more so since she and I have been reunited. I'm grateful to know her now that we are together; there hadn't been a day that passed since we lost her in which I had not thought of her._

 _But now, my darling, how I miss you._

 _I am content just to be by your side, to witness and become lost in wonderment of the courage you possess and to fall in love with you all over again - but even so, all the while I wish that I could speak with you, that you could hear me give voice to the truths in my heart. I'm with you - always a breath away - yet there is nothing I can do to bring myself back to the world entirely. And so I must gratify myself with your presence, with words of love that only I can hear. Being so close to you and yet so impossibly distant is my only regret now. Sometimes I cannot help wondering if that is my final atonement for the blood on my hands - to reach for you and call your name, only for you to pause an instant yet never truly respond. But I think better of the notion each time it occurs. This is not a punishment - rather, it is an immense comfort to me to continue to see you alive and well, to hear the laughter of our children and know all the while that every moment of your lives are worth the price I paid. I have no regrets in what I had to do, in the way my life ended. I know you question it even now, that you still cry for me in the silent darkness between dreams and waking, and I long to help you to truly understand, that you may see the grander purpose of the events which came to pass. But even if I could somehow reach you, it is not my place to say; it is not something meant to be known to you now. Yet I wish I could say that to you - to ease your burdens even if only in the smallest of ways._

 _You still mourn for me - you rediscovered your strength and forged your resolve in the autumn and on through the winter, yet even so I know that some instances are more difficult than others to remember the courage you possess. It pains me that you doubt yourself when that strength threatens to escape you. But I know that you will never lose it entirely - that fact is of a great comfort to me, and I pray that this unspoken truth will continue to serve you well as time goes by. You must live your life in spite of the pain your grief elicits in those darker moments, when you feel that all hope is lost; you must be happy. Do not lose yourself in your bereavement, my love. Your soul is too beautiful to cast to the winds - protect it, bring it to life once again with the dawning of each new day. Do not try to rush through the years in the hopes of fending off further reminders of your grief; if you do, you will surely fall victim to your life passing you by. I cannot allow that. You gave me my life - I want you to have yours. The best is yet to come for you, and I promise you, I promise you that you can endure our separation as you watch your life unfold. You're brave, my darling, and you have so much yet to live for. And it won't be long until we are together again, in the end - not truly, not on a grander scale._

 _Your garden is blooming again, so bright and vivid in the summer sunlight against the dark memories of the harsh winters you've endured. This is a day in which you feel stronger, even content as the garden thrives beyond the threshold of the home we shared, a playground for our children as much as a reminder to you that life goes on. I know that you did not set foot in the space last year - not with the baby on the way, not with your heartache so terrible and consuming. But I understand what compelled you to hide away from the world, that only time could reignite the beautiful flame of your spirit in the wake of our separation. I smile whenever you go to the garden now, more than a year later. I revel in your triumph each time you venture back to each aspect of your life. When you began to pray once more, when you sang again, when you opened your heart at last to your own courage - every moment painted with your bravery left me in awe of you. I know that even those strides had seemed so insurmountable to you for so long, but I pray that time will usher in still more steps forward in your favor. Because you need to be there in the world, even if only to simply be out among your friends and neighbors as the children run circles in their merriment. I smile now as you kiss Evelyn's cheek and look upon Charles fondly as he darts between the pathways with his playmates - you deserve to share in that enjoyment, to experience those small and precious moments as they happen. You couldn't last year, you couldn't in those moments when your heart was seized by unbidden doubt - but today is different. Today you're stronger than the last, braver with each passing week._

 _I am so very proud of you, darling._

 _And, oh, how I miss you._

 _We were meant to find one another in life - in spite of the guilt and trepidation that plagued me for so long at the outset, I know that now without a doubt. From the moment of our first meeting and each day that followed, we created a place in one another's existence, irrevocably entwining our souls as the journeys of our lives unfolded before us. And we are meant to come together once again in the end - you need only to be patient. We are apart now, but we have the rest of time, an eternity before our eyes to walk hand-in-hand into our shared destiny - it is all ours for the taking. I shall hold your hand in mine and never let it go, and I know that I will rejoice on that day. You and I are one - one heart, one soul, separated only briefly yet still irrevocably intertwined as fate parts us. Nothing can truly keep us from one another. It is painful now, but the pain will not last. That I can say without a doubt - the darkness of the past will come to an end once and for all upon our reunion, and when it does you and I will have nothing left but the joy of going on side-by-side forever._

 _So live until that moment - continue your marvelous strides toward your heart's healing and carry on with the assurance of your strength. It will not fail you - do not doubt this. Go on living for me, for our children - go on living for yourself. I know that you are still afraid of what unknowns lie ahead of you, but you will be alright on your own, darling. You are never truly alone - you are so loved, and so very brave, and you deserve a wonderful life. And when it's all said and done, we'll meet again in another place._

 _I'll be with you until then, Christine. I always will._

 _I love you._

"You are the light that has led me back home

You were there when my dreams had all turned to dust

And the man in the mirror was a stranger

You ease my pain, you make it silent

Slowly I feel it beginning to fade

Take me to eternity

And let me bury this disguise"

Fin


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